


The Horse and the Gun

by Suneater (Gryn)



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, F/M, Gen, POV Alternating, POV Annabeth Chase, percy pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2019-11-15 09:34:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18070871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryn/pseuds/Suneater
Summary: “Men come West for one of two reasons, they’re looking for something, or something is looking for them. Which are you?"Percy has to run and the West is a wide new world where he can leave behind the shadow that chases him, and the blood that stains his hand. At least that's what he hopes until he stumbles into the town of New Athens, and comes across Sheriff Chase, who carries her own shadows.Now he has his past to run from, and a new threat to face.





	1. The Gun

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to another au, this one brought to you by too many classic westerns. A thanks to ananbeth for coming up with the initial idea with me and seeding it in my mind. 
> 
> Read, enjoy, comment.

The world pitches, rolls, shifts like the docks in the tide. The wind tumbles across the openness, pulling with it the heat and dirt to lay them back down across the road rutted with tracks. The sun lays fat above the horizon, air dancing where it crosses the dark line that separates a sea of blue muted mass of browns and green. Somewhere in that blue, drifting among the heat already building in the day, comes the call of birds reading for another day of survival. 

Leather groans and metal creeks, ground slipping past his view in an unfocused and washed out brown blur. The sides of the horse rise and fall, the pattern falling neatly between the plod of hooves and the pounding soreness of his legs. Across the road beside him follows his shadow, pulled long across the dust and dirt to flicker across the scrub brush and long grass at the edge of the road. 

He swallows, throat working through saliva thick with the dust of a hundred miles. His lips part, peeling, burning, cracking. At his leg his single canteen bounces with each pace, ringing at it strikes buckles and bone. The world seemingly is, always has been, and will ever be the same mile of road that falls away behind him only to rise up again ahead. Sisyphus was given a far less cruel punishment, he reckons, for at least he could see end of his journey. 

The steady and slow pace, the heat of the morning soaking into his shirt, the wind rolling across his back all lay a weight in him that pulls him into a fitful state somewhere between consciousness and sleep. It’s in this state, mind shifting the landscape around him to the wide Hudson bay and back that the ocean stills and his sea legs fail him. 

The water rushes up to meet him and for a moment he smiles, ready to taste the salt and scrub himself in the sea. The sea is neither kind nor caring, turning itself back into the hard packed road that pushes back against his fall. His shoulder screams, hand going numb for a second as the nerves fizzle and spark. He presses his forehead into the earth, palm pressing down as he lifts himself to a sitting position. The sun burns down from between the horses’ legs and neck, giving him little option but to squint into it as he takes in the steadiness of the animal in front of him.

“Thank you,” he croaks, words sharp, bitter, calloused. He tucks a leg under himself and moves into a crouch, checking for the familiar weight at the small of his back. His palms brush at the dust in some attempt to clear it away, as if an hours worth of riding won’t recoat him. “Nothing out here for miles and you decide this is where you want to-” he stops, eyes finally looking past the horse to the wooden posts on either side of the road. Outwards from these posts curves a fence of rough cut wood, two lengths of rough cut timber a piece nailed to a post. Beyond that fence, rising out of the grasses, are neat rows of wood sided buildings. “Alright,” he grumbles. “Maybe you’re not so bad afterall, Blackjack.” He gives the horse a pat, dust kicking off his hand. “Well Percy, time to make friends,” he tells himself. 

It takes throwing his full weight forward to remount Blackjack, his foot slipping, once then twice before he slips it over the saddle. His legs protest at the saddle pushing back into them once again, but there, within a quick trot is a town, a real bed, a drink. Blackjack voices no complaint at the quick snap of his reigns, taking off in a pace that jars Percy’s bones and starts an ache in his head. 

The road turns into a street that passes through the center of the town to branch off in clean lines at evenly spaced intervals. The wind carries the same dust that clouded him on the road down the streets, laying it over the windows and fronts of stores. Voices carry, shouted greetings and calls, life that isn’t the calling of birds or the howls of coyotes bringing a weary smile to his face. Percy guides Blackjack to down the sparsely littered street, pushing the horse towards a hitching post where a handful of horses wait tethered and drinking from a trough. He swings free of a stirrup, letting gravity pull him from the saddle as Blackjack closes the last few feet. One hand holds the reins, the other plunging into the trough to pull a handful of water up and over his head. 

It rushes down his back, soaking his shirt, trickles trailing down his arm and leaving rivulets of dust across his skin. Days of riding in the saddle, of sleeping on and under a thin blanket, of moving unceasingly, all wash away. Blackjack snorts beside him, nuzzle shoving Percy to the side to take a drink himself. 

The bit in the horse's mouth clicks as he sucks in his own drink. Percy gives Blackjack a pat and space, wrapping the reins around the post. The building he’s posted up his horse in front of looms over him, two stories of overlapped wood siding washed with white paint. A pair of doors, narrow and cut short, hang as a divider between the world and the interior. White lettering across the front read  _ Dare’s Saloon _ , and while he’s piecing together that wording an eruption of laughter breaks through the gentle wind and soft music that fills the street. Percy stands there a moment longer, the building unmoving, the weight at his back starting to pull like an anvil. He glances down the rows of wooden porches, tucked neatly under roofs of wooden slat for those downpours that are inevitable across the rolling planes. Townsfolk go about their business, only the closest of which watch him with heavy eyes and pursed lips. 

With nothing but the dust and the sun in the street he steps onto the porch, keeping one hand at his side, open and relaxed, as he pushes his way into the saloon. In the shifted darkness of the interior sits a strange scattering of tables, crowded with men hunched over drinks and cards or leaning easily. All of this is buried under a cloud of smoke that he chokes and sputters on, pushing down on the tension in his fists and bile in his throat. The noise draws eyes, and the eyes draw pointed looks. The men at the closest table, attention previously on a separate table and a game of cards, now cast their attention to him. Slowly they search him, each starting at his hip, then moving upwards until they have thoroughly weighed him. 

To most he must be only what they find, travel worn and dirtied clothing, without a belt or holster or hat or any trappings that he’s more than a weary man in a new place. Their interest satiated, or lost, most turn away. Whatever conversation that was lost with his entrance picks up without the loss of a moment’s thought or breath. Percy is left free to pick his way between the tables and find an open space at the bar.

In the narrow mirror that runs behind the bar stands a man with dirt covered face, sunken eyes ringed with bags, and course black stubble. The man stares back at him with hard eyes and hung head, looking back at the stranger who stands in his spot. Percy has to run a hand over the stubble, feel it bristle under his fingertips before he can feel himself in the man in the mirror.

“You looking for something?” A woman's voice pulls at him but his eyes stay taking in his own gaze. “Hey, you need something?” 

Percy turns, blinking, to find the bartender staring down at him. Her hair is pulled back with a cord but it still falls in fiery tendrils across her shoulders and forehead. Her head cocks to the side, eyes running him over. Her hands rest on the bar, paint splattered and scrubbed off all the way up to her elbows where her rolled sleeves begin. 

“A drink,” Percy forces out, voice heavy and rasp. 

The woman grins, careless and open and true. She slides one hand off the bar, turning her shoulders to gesture at the bottles stacked behind her. 

“We’ve got all the whiskey you can drink.”

Percy feels a bubble of bile creep up his throat. He shakes his head, swallowing hard and running his dry tongue over parched lips. 

“Not whiskey, water.” 

She laughs now, full and heavy. “If you want water there’s a well in the center of town. Or the horse trough, but it looks like you already got into that.” She scoops a bottle off the shelf and glass from under the bar, pouring the yellowish brown contents from bottle to glass. “A whisky on the house. It’s mostly water anyways,” she adds in a whisper. “Enjoy.” 

Without waiting for him to take the drink she slides the bottle back on the shelf and makes her way down the bar, pulling glasses or refilling them as their owner gestures. Percy hovers his hand around the glass, fingers flexing but not curling around the glass.

The smell is there, buried in the back of his mind like a splinter he’s found again and dug at. The cigarette smoke pours into his lungs, the whiskey chasing it, the shouts of men gambling and their course, burning, sharp laughter rake across his spine. Percy squeezes his eyes shut, pushing back the memories, holds against the walls squeezing in on him from saloon to apartment. 

A crack comes from beside him, Percy jumps, turns, fist balled and eyes snapping wide open. The man next to him grimaces, looks at Percy, frowns, eyes Percy’s whiskey. A glass, not a gunshot. A bar, not his apartment. Strangers, not Gabe. As reality filters back in he feels the glass ringing against his fingers. No, the glass stays, his fingers ring, fluttering like stalks of grass in the wind. He grabs the glass, pulls it up and swallows the liquid. 

It’s a muted burn, something still unpleasant but washed in the memories of times he’s trying to forget, not soaked in them. Whatever water was in the drink is lost to the hot weight that settles in his gut, burning a hole as it sloshes about. He pushes the glass back across the counter. 

The room around him, the noise of life and others pulls him back from the haunting memories. He swallows down the last of the traces of whiskey in his throat and turns to the room. His side presses into the bar, an arm propped on it to help his legs that tremble and ache. He glances over the room, finding a weight fading away as he takes in the scattered dress and state of the men at the tables. At one in particular his gaze stumbles, taking in the five figures crowded in with another few sitting close by, picking out the long black braids that tumble down the smallest of the figure’s back. They sit tall, brown leather vest fitted over a cotton shirt, a bright beaded belt holding the shirt at their waist.  _ Her _ waist, Percy realizes.

Her hands move smoothly across the stack of chips she picks from to toss into the center of the table. Across from her a man grins, yellow teeth still bright against his dark stubble and darker clothes. He too tosses chips, those he has left, into the center and flips his cards. Not a bad hand, Percy pieces from the hours of unwanted absorption brought upon him by proximity and confined space. The woman flips her own cards, the corner of her grin barely visible from where he stands, but there sure enough. The man’s brows furrow, face dropping, hands curling on the table. 

“You’re a fuckin’ cheat,” he shouts, cutting through the other conversations, silencing the room.

“You’re a poor loser,” she throws back. 

“I should have known not to play with a woman, let alone  _ your _ kind.” The man stands, chair sliding back, legs screeching across the uneven floors. “I’m taking my money back,” he growls. 

“I won it fair,” she says slowly, voice hard like iron. “You’re pissy because you lost to a woman, I were a man-“

“If you were a man, and had the iron to back it, we’d be taking this outside,” he barks.

“Ha, like you have enough  _ iron _ to back anything,” her words roll off of her lips smoothly, but with the force to pierce home. 

His eyes go wide, face going dark red as every muscles in his neck tenses. Before he can open his mouth, before a breath can be taken to speak up Percy feels a bark of laughter break free and echo in the quiet of the room. The eyes of every man whip to him, including the offended man.

“The fuck you laughing at?” Spit flies from his mouth. “You have any say in this?” The man’s eyes drop to Percy’s hip and snap back up. “You’re lucky you’re not carrying iron or I swear I’d put lead in you.” 

Percy feels the weight at his back go cold, burning into the small of his back. He shifts, twisting to put his back against the bar, to cover himself. 

“Looks like he does,” a slurred voice next to him says. “Tucked in his pants.” 

The muscles in the man’s face relax, his hands moving to the belt slung low about his hips, his head tilting back slightly. 

“Well then, why don’t we step outside and you can show me your piece. Seems a shame to keep it hidden.” There is victory in his voice, an absolute resolution that the outcome is inevitable. 

“I don’t see a need for that,” Percy says, eyeing the man and those closest to him. 

“You don’t know how to use it?”

“I do,” Percy says evenly.

“Then I don’t see the issue. We step outside and you show me what you can do with it, if you don’t shit your pants, and if I don’t draw first.” 

“Dylan,” the voice of the bartender cuts across the room. “You played a bad hand, you’re not shooting anyone over this in my saloon.” 

“Oh it won’t be in your saloon,” Dylan says proudly. “And it ain't over a hand of cards, this is over my honor as a man.” 

“I didn’t insult you,” Percy counters.

“No, but you laughed, and that’s what matters.” Dylan steps towards him. “You ain't from here but you think you can walk in and laugh at  _ me _ ? No sir, you have something to learn.” 

“I don’t owe you shit,” Percy growls, “and the only thing you can teach anyone is how to be an arrogant ass.” 

“Big man with your words, let’s see if your gun back ‘em.” Dylan’s hand rests on the handle of his pistol, finger sliding over the leather of his holster. 

Doors bang open, light flashing into the room for a second, then disappearing and reappearing. 

“Dylan,” a hard voice makes him jump, the tension in the room rippling to a frozen stillness. 

“Sheriff,” Dylan draws. 

“Get your hand off your gun.” 

Percy pulls his eyes away from Dylan only when his hand lifts a foot from his weapon, shifting quickly to the figure that stands in front of the still swinging doors with a rifle in her hands and eyes that make his stomach drop. 

Any man with sea salt in his blood would snap at the chance to tell you there are times when the ocean is not meant for mane to sail, and you can see those times in the clouds that suck the color from the water. Percy’s listened to the stories and the warnings enough to rasp the tales of caution in his own voice, and he can tell here in this landlocked state there is a storm that is not meant for men to handle in her eyes. 

“There’s nothing here but a personal grievance, Sheriff,” Dylan says calmly.

“I very much doubt that,” the Sheriff remarks, voice laced with just a hint of twang. “Every time you and your boys ride into town it seems I’m inevitably called in to ride you out.” 

“The grievance is real, Sheriff. The injin cheated and he insulted me.”

“I didn’t cheat,” the woman snaps, standing too, hand reaching for her belt. 

“Piper,” the Sheriff warns, “step back.” 

The woman, Piper, takes a step back from the table, hand still at her side. Percy keeps his eyes on the Sheriff but his attention on Dylan, already cursing this town and this man.

“Why don’t you and your boys leave, Dylan. You seem to have run out of money anyways.” 

“Can’t just do that Sheriff.”

“I believe you can, or the Deputy and I can hog tie you and let your horses carry you back to where ever it is you hole up at night.” 

Dylan bores his gaze into Percy, jaw working back and forth. 

“I have every right to challenge him, he’s carrying iron.” 

“That so? Rachel, what’s you take?”

“Dylan lost a hand, remarked he’d challenge Piper and  _ she _ insulted him. The New Yorker laughed, but if Dylan had a right to challenge anyone that laughed at the stupidity that comes out of him he’d have right to challenge God himself.” Rachel says all of this calmly, cooly, and without regards to the fact she has outed him as an outsider, Percy throws a dark look at the bartender. 

Dylan growls, showing that Percy isn’t the only one happy with something that was said. 

“So Piper insulted you then. Piper, you have a gun on you?” The Sheriff waits.

“No,” Piper says, a note of regret in her voice. 

“Anyone care to lend her one?” The saloon is silent except for the strained breathing of a few of the patrons. “Then it seems you have no one to actually challenge, no money, and no reason to stay.” There is no grounds for anything other than acceptance in the Sheriff’s voice. 

“Well then,” Dylan says darkly, “I guess we’ll be on our way.” 

There is a moment when the tension is pulled and strained, ice ready to break under them and throw them into the storm and currents. Dylan reaches down, wraps his fingers around his jacket which hangs across the back of his seat, and pulls it free. With that the tension shifts, and slips away, carrying with him and the others that file out the door. 

A greeting is shouted from outside, met with the clamoring of men, the rustle of leather and metal, then finally the sharp snap of reins and hooves pounding against dirt. With a quarter of the room empty the air seems less restrictive, less thick, and Percy takes an easy breath. One that freezes in his chest when the Sheriff turns back to him.

“You, outside,” she orders. 

Percy’s muscles tense with the itch to run, to break for the doors and Blackjack and carry on another hundred miles but the Sheriff is there, rifle in hand, between him and those doors. So he nods, pushing away from the bar and taking slow, even steps towards her. She steps backwards through the doors and out into the street, Percy following a step behind. Another man stands in the street, a rifle in hand with the butt of it resting on his hip. His gaze is no less hard but it lacks the storm in his eyes, instead there is only the vacant weight of judgement. 

“What brings you to New Athens?” The twang is there again in her voice, clinging to the ending of her words. 

“What?” Percy swallows, turns to her, eyes furrowing. 

“Why are you here?”

“Looking for work,” Percy answers, eyes flicking between hers. 

“Why?”

“Why?” he repeats.

“ _ Why _ ?”

“Need the money,” he says dumbly, unsure of what words she’s waiting for.

The Sheriff huffs a laugh through her nose, head shaking slowly. She lets one hand fall from the rifle, swinging it to her side and shifting her weight over the opposite leg. 

“Men come West for one of two reasons, they’re looking for something, or something is looking for them. Which are you?”

Percy blinks at her, at the sharpness of her words and the edge that cuts through the stilted pretense. New York may have those who will give you a cold shoulder, a trait he can’t claim he doesn’t carry, but this is a level he can’t say he’d find in the streets of Manhattan. 

“Looking for something,” he says.

The Sheriff tilts her head back, looking down her nose at him. “What’s your name.” 

“Percy Jackson.”

“Well Mister Jackson, you’re full of shit, but if you’re willing to work and not cause trouble I can’t make you leave.”

He opens his mouth to protest, closes it, looks at the deputy and the tilt of the Sheriff's head. He decides to let the argument die. 

“I’m Sheriff Chase, that’s Deputy Grace. As long as you’re here you’ll abide by what we say.  Clear?” He nods. “Good. Beckendorf is looking for help,” she jerks her head down the road. “Rachel can set you up with a room until you find a more permanent residence,” she nods back inside the saloon. “Welcome to New Athens, Mister Jackson.”

She steps off the porch, a single long braid trailing behind her. Her head turns, glancing back at him over her shoulder with the shadow of the saloon falling across her. 

“And Mister Jackson, keep the gun in your room or get a god damned holster.” 

She crosses the street, the deputy following behind her in her wake, and leaves him there at the doors of the saloon. 

 

* * *

 

Wind pulls at her braid, swinging the rifle in her hand, and laying a fine coat of dust across her clothing. Boots scuff behind her, the heavy, slow gate the shadow that follows her through this town in every waking moment. It's the sound of another set of eyes, a fast and steady hand, and another waiting rifle covering her back. 

This morning that gait presses along another weight, something that sits heavy between herself and the deputy. On a morning spent flipping through news papers and telegrams, or spent shuffling through town passing out tilted greetings she'd let that tension sit until it has risen and boiled over. On a morning she's already sent Dylan and his gang riding, with a stranger standing at the heart of her town armed with a gun he has no good right to, she can't exactly afford to drag that tension around.

“Something you need to say Grace?” 

“No, Sheriff,” he responds, curt and direct.

She turns, a half dozen paces from the decency of her office, letting the sun and God's eyes fall across them. 

“Deputy,” she throws out the title, letting it fall to the dirt between them, “is there something you _ want _ to say?” 

There's a twist to his lips that starts at the scar and ends at the corner of his mouth. For all his time mounted and in uniform they never seem to have broken him of the last sliver of Independence. Obedience he still has in abundance, but there's no hesitation to the apt but blunt observations when the door to her office closes. Jason Grace may have served in the worst hell the States have ever seen, been bred and molded for war, but he is nothing if not his own man. 

“A stranger rides into town, starts a ruckus, nearly gets himself shot by Dylan, and you let him walk away with a gun in his waistband,” Jason shakes his head. “You know something I don't?”

“Plenty of things,” Annabeth doesn't take a breath before letting the comment slip. 

“Oh then good,” Jason says flatly. “Another gun is loose in the town but you know things.” He covers the ground between them in a few long strides. “Is he running towards something, or away from something?” 

Annabeth sets her jaw, staring up into the lightning etched eyes of her partner. The sun warms her back, the wind pulling the sweat and heat from her shirt. A lie wouldn't cost her much now, but the interest would be steep. The truth though isn't any stronger than a thatched roof, and has as many holes in it. Jason's her deputy, the choices she makes, that she's just made, are his to deal with too. 

“He's running from something.”

“You have no problem with that?” 

“I have a gang of desperate men that keep losing their money at Rachel's tables, all of them armed, all of them itching and dancing to pull a trigger. But Mister Jackson, he had a chance to draw, to put action to Dylan's words and he didn't. He's running from something, and that will make him steer for safe waters. He’s going to play it safe.” Annabeth glances down the street, nodding to those passing by. “Dylan though it's running towards something, and that something is a fight.”

Annabeth turns, pacing her step, her twist, with time to let Jason keep up. Without pause he follows, stepping onto the porch of their office in time with her. Under the shade of their roof she pulls her hat, running an arm over her forehead and pushing away the free stray strands of sweat slicked hair that cling to it. 

“You could run them out and keep them out,” Jason offers.

“They haven't done anything wrong.”

“The shit that bastard's said to Piper is enough-” 

“Your girl started this fight,” Annabeth cuts off. “And if Miss McLean wants to deal with his words that's between herself and Dylan.  _ Not you _ .” Annabeth adds.

“She's not my girl,” Jason mutters, eyes fixed on her but a tinge of color coloring his cheeks. 

“Well then it's good to see you so caring about the citizens of our town. Maybe spread that concern around.” Annabeth turns, grabbing the handle and swinging the door of the sheriff's office open. 

Her rifle is set against the wall, butt down, muzzle nestled in it's crook. She shifts her belt and sits, setting her hat down on the thick layer of papers that blanket her desk. Jason sits on the edge of his own, arms crossed over his chest. 

“I don't like sitting here waiting for them to pick the fight. Not men like Dylan. I know his kind, I'm not happy to say I rode with them, but I did. They won't wait until a time when we're ready.” Jason's voice is low and level and edged with an energy Annabeth doesn't care to place. 

“We're not at war, Jason. You aren't judge, jury, and executioner. If Dylan and his boys are going to start a fight we'll never be ready. As hard as you are, you aren't a dozen men.” Jason scoffs at this. “Jason, I mean this as kindly as possible, but you should think on why you're willing to fight Dylan without cause.” 

“He's a bully, a racist, and a coward. Given the chance he'd burn the town and do things I'd never speak of. Just because he hasn't done anything yet, doesn't mean he won't.” Jason leans back, pulling his shoulders square. “That's all the cause I need.” There is no qualm in Jason's voice, only the ring of absolute resolve. 

That fact lets a bullet drop into her gut, the lead heavy and uncomfortable. 

“So you think it's right to hang him for something he'll do _ eventually _ .”

“I think a man who lives by the gun needs to be prepared to have one used against him. But would I hang him? No, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't make it clear he's not welcome here.” 

Annabeth feels the same, time old question rise to her lips. The same one that rose the day he walked into her office, Stetson in hand still in uniform, and has risen every time she’s seen those military colors in his words. She swallows it though, not willing to give a chance at having to explain her name, for it's only fair that is she asks her question, he gets to ask his. 

“So what are you going to do, Deputy?” Annabeth sits straighter in her chair, pressing her shoulder blades back into the hardwood backing. 

Jason pushes off his desk, walking around it to sink into his own chair, a hand resting on his holster. “Absolutely nothing. You're the Sheriff, and I'm here to back what you say.”

Obedience in plenty. 

Annabeth lets her shoulders fall, turning her eyes down to the papers across her desk. She pushes a few of them aside, moves some closer, ignores the majority of them. They are all already in her memory, at least enough of them to matter or to recall later when she needs them. But to piece together the wording as a whole, line by line, word by word, letter by letter is something that would turn her hairs gray and drive her running into the wilderness barefoot. 

“Then it seems it’s settled, we wait. If Dylan and his boys decide to do something stupid then we’ll be here.” 

Annabeth filters through the newest of the reports and telegrams, picking out the charges, the rewards, the state. She tosses a handful that are out of date already, setting aside others she’ll come back to later. As she picks over the heavy black font she finds a week old description that makes the bullet in her stomach melt and boil away, the charges read like a string of horrors, a stampede she saw start and still can’t find herself to accept or run from. It is the only solid detail provided though that starts a ringing in her head like a train hitting its brakes. A scar on his left side, running from eyebrow to jaw, but without marring his blue eyes. 

She thinks his name in the same voice she screamed at him in. It takes her only a heartbeat to grab the paper, strike the match, and toss them both into the pot iron furnace in the corner. She stands, watching the paper burn, hearing Jason shift in his chair as he peers around her, his gaze falling onto her back. The only thing she’s thankful for, is that there was no image of Luke included. 

 


	2. The Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are secrets and then there are the things that you bury as deep as you can, even though you know they will rise back to the surface. Annabeth has plenty of these things.

The morning air sits like a blanket across the town, too cold, to heavy to stir up dust and pull at hats and hair and clothes. It is a peaceful start, a promising omen for the day to come and Annabeth clings to that much tighter than she clings to the reins of her horse. 

There are the mornings that start like this, calm and cold and settled, with that blanket of calm draped across them that turn. Days where the wind is lost in the grasses and riverbed when the heat comes in, that blanket of calm then becomes thick and heavy. Pressing down on the town and suffocating them under the heat as they try and deny it, try and ignore it, try and do what they can to continue on their days. But there are no places to seek shelter from that heat in so small a town.

Annabeth pulls back at her sleeves, slipping the button on the cuffs free and shoving them up until they bnuch at her forearms. A chill works down her neck, into her shoulders, and then through her spine even as the chill creeps in on her. When the heat comes, and it will inevitably come, it will strain the nerves of all involved and Annabeth will be the one to keep the peace. Or what amount she can maintain. 

Medusa, her horse, tracks its way through the quiet streets just coming to life. The horse picks a path between the rivets and dips, over those streaks of mud that never seem to dry and harden. At the corners and intersections she gives Medusa a nudge, her horse turning to the to cue of her handler. As Annabeth closes in on the blacksmith’s she pulls in on the reins, bringing Medusa to a slow walk. The sun hasn’t passed the roofs but there’s already the ring of hammer against iron. A thin line of smoke hazes the otherwise perfect blue sky, a sign that the fire in Beckendorf’s forge is still burning. Annabeth can’t count a day since she became Sheriff that the trail of smoke hasn’t been there. 

Rows of tools hang from rafters and beams, handfuls of them sitting on tables and workbenches, more stacked in tool racks against the walls. In the center glows a gaping mouth of Hades, red-orange light that pulses and breathes spilling out into the chill morning. At this burning cauldron works Beckendorf, hunched over his work, a hammer in one hand, tongs in the other. Slowly the red mass of iron forms into shape, yielding under Beck’s steady pace. 

Her eyes aren’t caught on this though, instead they travel slowly across the work space to the other man who stands at the back of the open space. He kneels, hand running over the leg of a horse as black as night. He too works, a knife in hand as he picks the horse’s leg up, resting it against his leg so he can run his fingers over the hoof. His dark hair falls over his forehead and into his eyes at times, causing him to shift or shake his head. Slowly, with almost hesitation he runs the blade over the hoof, trimming away a thin sliver and running his thumb over the area. From beside him he picks a horseshoe from the ground, places it firmly against the hoof. His face tightens, relaxes, and he nods. 

“Morning, Sheriff,” Beck’s voice shatters the silence. 

Her eyes snap to him, a voice in her mind chiding her for not catching the hammering drifting away. Beck wears a grin, the tongs laid across his anvil, hammer hung loosely in his hand. His leather apron wrinkles and folds as he shifts, leaning himself against his work space. 

“Morning,” Annabeth draws, hands twisting around the reins. 

Her eyes drift back to Percy, who now stands, hand against his horse. Tentatively he gives her a nod, the motion stiff and heavy. The horseshoe is still in his hand, points hanging downwards. Behind him the horse seems to notice difference in its hooves, lifting and lowering its leg while using its muzzle to push Percy. His attention is drawn to the horse for a moment and the stillness in the air breaks. 

Annabeth swings off Medusa, holster jostling on her hip as she drops free of the saddle and covers the last paces to the Blacksmith’s. She stands just under the cover of the roof, reins still in hand, when Percy turns back to her. His eyes widen a second, his foot shifting back slightly but his weight moving forward. A tingle in her fingers pulls for the cold metal of her gun, or the handle of her knife, but she presses away that feeling and steps further into the work space. 

“I see Mister Jackson is settling in,” she keeps her voice level and cool, giving him a nod. 

“He is,” Beck voices. “Not bad with his hands and hasn’t set anything on fire yet.” 

“Always a good sign,” Annabeth lets a smile slip into her words. “And I see he’s at least half decent with a horse.” 

In her peripheral Beck nods, “His horse actually.” 

“Is it?” Annabeth lets the reins drop from her hand, Medusa snorting softly behind her. She leaves her horse there and walks around the blacksmith’s to the other side of Percy’s horse. Its black mane shimmers, glossy and full and this close almost shaded in purple. “She’s gorgeous,” Annabeth says. 

“He,” Percy’s voice is rasp. 

“He,” Annabeth corrects herself. She runs her hand down his side, up his neck, and curls her fingers into his mane. The horse presses into her, head twisting to look back at her as his weight shifts between his legs. “What’s his name?”

“Uh, Blackjack,” Percy’s voice is steadier, fuller. 

“Blackjack,” Annabeth whispers. “Well Mister Jackson, this is a fine horse. How did you manage to acquire him?” She steps level with Blackjack’s head, keeping her hands on his face and neck, but letting her eyes move to Percy. 

Percy looks over the horse, his weight shifting back and forth, free hand running down his leg. He licks his lips, swallows, turns his eyes back to her. 

“I think he found me really. I needed a horse, he came over,” Percy shrugs. 

“And you rode off?” Annabeth’s brows press together. 

“His owner thought he was a hassle, seemed ready to get rid of him.” Another shrug. 

“He seems docile enough to me,” Annabeth remarks. 

“Ha,” Beck laughs, “tell that to the fence he nearly broke. He’s a handful.”

Metal scrapes against metal and Beck’s hammer continues it’s steady beat. Annabeth narrows her eyes, shifting them to the horse and meeting his eye. There is an energy that flashes, a coiling of the muscles in his side, ready to pull and run, ready to be free. But the horse remains in place, three hooves steadily planted on the ground, head down and ears raised.

“He’s seems calm enough now,” Annabeth says, finally pulling her hands away from Blackjack. 

“Good with horses,”  Beckendorf calls over the pounding of his hammer.

Percy seems to wince at that, fingers scraping at the horseshoe. He turns slightly, moving so that his Beck is no longer at his back but just behind his shoulder. 

“I used to work with horses. In a carriage house. They are easy enough to handle.” The words are quick and heavy with an accent that could be marked a mile away. He holds himself with that same accent somehow. Stiff, ridged, shifting under the space and sun and dust. A city is not a city it seems, at least not to him. 

“A skill I admire in a man,” the words fall free before she can check them, weight them and decide if they are worth handing out. Percy straightens, fingers stilling on the horseshoe. Annabeth turns, hand running over Blackjack as she steps away and back towards her own horse. “Any chance you can take a look at Medusa, Beck? I know you’re not the farrier-” 

“You’re right,” he interrupts, a smile spreading across his face. “Mister Jackson is.” 

Annabeth halts, hand halfway to Medusa’s reins, reaching out into the air. Her eyes flash to Percy who stands somehow more rigid than before. He shuffles sideways, returning to Blackjack and keeling back down at the hoof he was working on before her interruption. Annabeth tenses her jaw, teeth sliding against each other momentarily. She wraps her fingers around Medusa’s reins, pulling the horse around the corner of the building to the open side next to Blackjack. 

“Well then, Mister Jackson. Would you mind taking a look at Medusa?” 

He stays kneeling next to Blackjack but gives her a nod, hands holding the shoe in place and readying the nails. Annabeth ties off Medusa, standing to the side to see Percy at work. His hands take the tools and the task well, tapping in the nails without undue force or haste. From where she stands she can see mostly his back with only an angle at his side and no way to see his face. His face is still covered with stubble, dark hair shading the sharp line of his jaw. Annabeth wonders how coarse that stubble is compared to his horse’s mane. 

Percy stands abruptly, tucking his tools into one hand and giving Blackjack a firm pat. Without anything said he pushes Blackjack out of the space, setting his tools down and striding over to Medusa. He closes within a pace, hand out, palm forward. They stand there, Annabeth and Percy waiting, Medusa sniffing at the air, testing the scent. She takes a step forward, nostrils grazing over his hand before she drops her head. 

One by one he gently pulls up hooves, fingers picking over the metal and nail, his face pulling up a handful of times. With the last hoof inspected he stands, rolling his shoulders and shoving his hair back. 

“A couple of them need work,” he says, face turned away from her. “Give me an hour or so.” 

Annabeth nods, hands resting on her hips. She rocks onto her heels, then back onto the balls of her feet. The words form in her gut, stringing themselves together as they reach her lips. 

“Tell me, Mister Jackson, where was this carriage house at?” 

His shoulders shift, hands balling into fists for a heartbeat before they're spread back out and reaching for tools. 

“New York.” The words are curt and sharp and barter no follow up.

“How'd you like working at this carriage house?” Annabeth steps towards the forge, eyes directed towards Beck and his work but keeping Percy just within sight.

“Well enough,” he says simply. She's glad enough it's not another shrug.

“But not well enough to stay instead of moving across the country to become our farrier.” Annabeth turns so she's squared off with him, her gaze steady on his face.

“Not much of a future there. Figured there was something better out here.” His eyes meet hers but his jaw works, moving like he's tasted something he doesn't like that he can't get out of his mouth.

Annabeth paces her breaths, waits for that humming in her nerves to settle and the pull of his green eyes to wane. “Well Mister Jackson, hopefully you find what you're looking for.”

He gives her a nod she returns, something still unsaid between them. A sentence or a conversation they haven't finished still lingering. But there's an itch in Annabeth's skin, in her hands to trace his stubble, in her eyes to drink him in. It's an itch she fears can't be scratched, not here. 

As she turns she hears the slight sigh, the escape of a held breath, he lets go. A rush that starts in her back between her shoulder blades courses down her spine, that unfinished conversion weighing all the heavier. Whatever it is he's not saying, is something that could very well pull her down with him.

 

* * *

  
  
  


There were mornings that would push the air in off the ocean, sometimes bringing in with it banks of fog that would obscure the thin morning light. Mornings when you could see your breath and the chill pushed you further into your sheets. There were also days when the sun would rise like fire, turning the stone and concrete streets into an oven to bake yourself in. The heat pulsing off every inch of the city would boil the blood in his body and leave his throat dry and sticking. 

Here, thousands of miles from that city and the Atlantic the day has been both. The morning had pulled the heat from his bones and now, the sun, nearly hit its midpoint, pours that heat back in. The forge in the center of the building does its best to keep up, pushing out more heat with every pump of the bellows. The very air around him shimmers, burning in his throat as he pulls in another heaving breath.

Whatever wind there was the day before has gone, passed through the grasses and scrub brush for something further west of here. In its place the heat is left to sit and fester. Here in the shade on a crate covered in his saddle he waits for the heat to pass or kill him. 

The street is empty, the blacksmith's quiet, the world so steeped in heat that it can do nothing. In this quiet his conversation with the sheriff echoes. What few words he had passed to her digging in under his skin like splinters, like ticks. They bury in and take from him, as much as he might itch and pry they will not come out.

With the street empty and no work he has little else to do except dig at that itch, running the conversation, the look she gave him, the lurch in his stomach when she appeared all through his head over and over. It's like running nails over raw skin, it hurts but it drives that itch away if only for a moment. 

His eyes settle on Blackjack while he thinks, watching the horse pick through the scattered pieces of straw in the corral across the street. The buildings on either side cast shadows that the horse can cover himself in while Percy can keep an eye on him. Not that there's much space left on Percy's mind with the conversation and the sheriff's eyes weighing so heavily on him.

There is nothing that comes from giving up information that helps him, that doesn't push him closer to being found out. Still he can't nail down that it was that pried the carriage house from his mouth. It's the lack of anything to point to, to cling to and point a finger at that churns his stomach. The sheriff seemed to say nothing and still he talked. 

He mulls on this fact. Letting it sit in the knot of embarrassment and self criticism while he observes his horse. Percy misses the shift in Blackjack’s ears, misses the quickening flick of his tail, and nearly misses the lift of his head. The horse’s focus moves from the ground to the distance and Percy hears the clap of hooves on dirt. 

They ride in like they're made of thunder, horses wide eyed and panting. The first of them make it past the blacksmith's, past Percy, before they round and come back. A few wear bananas across their faces, most have dirty and threadbare shirts with vests or jackets pulled over top. All wear guns and blades and bullets at their hips. One of them pulls away from the others, riding his horse up until it his spurs are nearly in Percy's face. 

“Well I'll be fucked,” Dylan's course, forced-drawn words float to Percy on a wave of self-assuredness. “If it ain't the New Yorker. You still around, boy?” 

Percy lifts his chin, eyes all too eagerly meeting Dylan's. He works his jaw for a second, searching through the responses that stampede through his mind. 

“Guess I am,” Percy says, no waiver or shake to his voice. The sun burns behind Dylan, casting him in shadow and forcing Percy to stare into the searing blue sky, but he keeps his eyes set on the shape of the man looming above him.

Dylan shifts his horse a pace back, leaning forward in the saddle to hover over Percy like a hawk watching a mouse. His horse pulls as the bridle, teeth clinking against the bit, sides still heaving. As he looks up into the man’s brutish grin, Percy wishes the weight of his gun stilled pulled at the small of his back. The horse puts Dylan far above his own height, but here, sitting on his saddle he has to crane his neck up to look at the bastard. 

“Well then lucky me,” Dylan says dryly. “Looks like I didn’t miss my chance at killin’ you.” Dylan’s grin spreads, his right hand easing back to his hip, fingers resting on the gun hilt he flashes as he flicks away his jacket. 

Percy stands, the motion stirring the horse and every man around Dylan. There’s a moment when Dylan’s eyes widen, his fingers curling around the handle of his pistol. That moment passes, Dylan’s eyes narrowing but his hand staying on his weapon. 

“I don’t suppose you’re still carrying that iron are you?” 

Percy holds his hands out to his sides, palms forward, gaze never leaving Dylan. 

Dylan shakes his head, slowly drawing his gun as Percy’s heart hammers like a horse galloping in his chest. The gun hangs in Dylan’s hand, wrist limp, barrel pointed away if just only. Percy’s eyes are now fully drawn away from Dylan’s, focused on the glint of metal in his hand instead. 

“You know that’s a gods damned shame,” Dylan shakes his head again, the gun swaying in his hand, “I had hoped that we’d have a chance to finish what we’d started. Without the Sheriff around to interfere this time, or who knows, maybe I’ll deal with her after” Dylan’s grin returns, brighter and sharper this time. 

Percy lets a smile spread across his own face, letting the sweat drip and roll down his neck, ignoring the tug in his gut to run right now, ignoring the look of the three other men still sitting on their horses around him. 

“Seemed to me like you turned tail and took off fast enough when the Sheriff showed up. You sure you’re so eager to see her again?” Percy lets the words fall where they may, each one pulling back Dylan’s grin another notch. 

“You know,” Dylan slams his gun back in his holster. “Just because you don’t have a gun doesn’t mean I can still kill you.” He swings off his horse, landing in the narrow space between them and throwing a hasty fist in the same motion. 

Percy throws an arm up and it grazes off of him, stinging through his arm and throwing Dylan’s weight forward over his foot. In the heartbeat after Dylan takes his swing Percy shoves forward, dropping his shoulder and throwing it into Dylan’s chest. The stumble back, Dylan colliding with his horse, Percy following behind and driving his weight into the other man’s chest. The horse takes a leap sideways, whinnying as it does and kicking out, scattering the horses around it. Without support they fall backwards again, Dylan still unable to get his feet back under him but this time they meet the ground, Dylan colliding first, Percy a moment behind him. They land in a cloud of dust and curses, Dylan’s string of profanity shouted into Percy’s ear. Percy scrambles, pushing down on Dylan while leveraging himself up, pulling back his fist and throwing a punching wildly downward, connecting it with something that pulls a grunt. By the time he's pulled his fist back again Dylan has his hands up, curling his fingers in Percy's shirt, pulling hard to the side and sending Percy crashing down to the dirt beside him. Dust and dirt and shouts rise, the handful of men Dylan rode into town with spurring their horses around the fight to goad them on. 

Percy holds his breath as he scrambles, muscles focused on pushing every ounce of strength into the fight. His heart hammers in his chest, the echo of the beats ringing in his ears. His fingers grasp at Dylan's jacket, the wool scraping between his fingers as Dylan twists, pulls, kicks. 

He gets his fingers dug into the seams of Dylan's coat and yanks hard, hard enough to dig the fabric into his hand until his skin threatens to tear. Percy jams his fist back, throws it forward, shoulder scraping the ground as first meets flesh. Dylan howls, hands slipping free of Percy to cover his nose. 

“Hold the son-of-a-bitch!” Dylan's yell is muffled by his hands and wet with blood. 

Boots hit the ground and horses whiney, Percy has to time to hear this before there are hands grabbing his shirt, hauling him up, hauling him away. A pair of them hold him between them, legs flailing in the dirt, kicking to get back under him. His boots scrape against the thin layer of loose dust over the road, his fist stinging, shoulders pinching with pain as the two men pull him apart at the joints. Percy is held there to watch as Dylan shoves himself off the ground, throwing out sprays of dust as he sways and stumbles. Dylan moves his hands from his face, a trail of blood running from nostril to chin and dripping down to the dirt. He runs his hand over his nose, letting it drop to his side and flicking his fingers. A few droplets of blood fly from them, some landing on his legs, some mixing with the others in the dirt. 

He takes that same hand, balls it into a fist, and slams it into Percy’s stomach. The air rushes from Percy's chest, his stomach tightening into a brick that refuses to yield, refuses to let him gulp in the air his lungs burn for. In the same breath Dylan pulls back his fist for a second punch, knuckles of his fist white. Percy closes his eyes, jaw clenched, stomach still aching. 

“Seems a little unfair, the three of you against him,” Beck's voice booms through the street, drawing Dylan's arm to a stop. 

Percy's eyes open, the street is still there, Dylan is still holding a clenched fist, but now Beck stands at the front of his shop, a hammer in one hand. 

“Seems a little unfair for you to get involved in other's business,” Dylan says smoothly, words only taking a slight wet lisp. His fist unclenches, drifting slowly down his side, flicking away his jacket to reveal the gleaming handle of his holster. “Why don't you head back inside and let us finish our business.” 

Beck takes a step towards, head high, hammer stiff by his side. “Why don't you ride out, Dylan? Don't you have another poker game to lose?” 

The sly smile on Dylan's face curdles, twisting into a sneer. His fingers take their time wrapping around the handle of his gun, the sound of metal drawing against leather ringing in the hot air. The motion lasts long enough for Percy to throw a glance at Beck, pleading that the other man step back inside. 

Beck's eyes are somewhere over Percy's shoulder though, focused on some point more interesting than the man standing in front of him with a gun leveled at him. For a moment Percy wonders if Beck woke up this morning wanting to be shot, or if the heat drove him to do this.

“I think I told you, boy, to go back inside.” Dylan's thumb rests on the hammer of the pistol, knuckle bending as if he aims to pull it back and cock the weapon. 

There is the click of the action from a gun being readied, the air rippling with tension in the wake of the sound. That simple metallic clack of metal locking against metal pulls men as tight as the spring that drives the action. Dylan is one of these men. His head swings, thumb still held in place on the hammer of his weapon, the one silent and still and not ready to fire. Both men still on their horses fidget, hands drifting towards their hips. The men on either side of Percy pull him tighter between them just long enough to make him groan before the tension waxes, a hand from each of them falling away quickly, just not quick enough.

“Don't,” the voice orders, no pretense or room for thought. “Don't fucking touch your weapons. 

“Good afternoon deputy,” Dylan can't quite hide all the hiss in his voice.

“Lower the gun Dylan, or I'll take your fucking arm,” the Deputy's answer comes quick and sharp. 

“That's a cavalry rifle if I'm not mistaken, they have plenty of power but take a breath to reload. Think you can get off another shot before one of us draws on you?” 

Percy's breath catches, his throat dry, hands curling into fists, arms pulling against the hands holding him.

“Which two of you would like to die trying to find out?” The question is met with silence, all the answer any sensible man needs. Outnumbered or not, the Deputy has the draw on them, a bullet in the chamber is worth far more than one in a holster. “Let go of Mister Jackson,” Deputy Grace orders, Percy glancing at the man to his right who looks to Dylan for his cue. “Dylan isn't the one with a rifle pointed at your back, so what the fuck are you looking at him for?” 

The men let Percy go, hands moving free of him but staying in the air, far from their weapons. Percy shrugs, stumbling for a step to get his weight back on his own feet. He moves towards Beck, never giving any of them his back, never giving them the chance to decide the hassle he's given them is worth a bullet in the back. He glances down the road to where the deputy stand, rifle in hand, pinned down the road in their direction. The rifle rests against the Deputy's cheek, hat tipped low over his head so all you see of his face is shadow. It's not his face that draws attention as much as the gaping maw of the rifle that opens at Dylan. 

All seven of them wait like match heads against a stone, a single movement ready to spark them into life and set the town ablaze. It is the eighth man, the Deputy, that has to douse them in water. 

“Now gentlemen, I think it's time that you went on your way.” 

Dylan's hand moves, thumb lifting from the hammer and arm letting the gun drop slowly. It is a peaceful move but Percy's heart kicks in his chest. The motion is slow and deliberate and primed with tension. There is nothing in it that warrants a man submitting to the Law, and everything of a man about to make his next move. 

“You know Deputy Grace, I think you might want to reconsider your stance. No sense in losing the life of a good man such as yourself over a couple of their kind.” 

“Dylan,” the Deputy's voice is a rumble that barely makes it to them. “Shut the fuck up.”

The gun in Dylan's hand twitches, his finger flexing against the trigger. Percy weighs the cost of his words, the cost of choosing not to carry the gun he's dragged across the country. One man would be hard enough to take, let alone five, given the way he shoots. Though he'd end up with at least one bullet in him, Beck and the Deputy wouldn't be catching bullets of their own, and at least the shadow that's chased him from New York would be put to rest and buried with him, not spread to those around him once again. But here he is, without a gun, relying on others to pull the trigger for him once again. 

Dylan smiles almost pleasantly, “Now, Deputy I-”

“Dylan,” the Sheriff's voice cuts him off cold, “listen to the Deputy and keep your mouth shut.” 

Dylan obliges, pressing his lips into a line, gun still steady in his hand. Percy spares a glance back down the street, catching sight of the sheriff as she strides towards them. She cradles that same rifle in her arms, brass and steel gleaming in the sunlight. Her hair falls in a heavy braid over her shoulder, glowing a warm gold. Despite the heat and calm of the day her eyes are cold and brewing. Without the rifle she'd still be a threat, still be a presence. With it, she is the full weight of the law, even in this tiny street. 

“Gentlemen, I believe I requested you leave town.” Her words are steady and heavy and measured.

“You did,” Dylan says with a nod, the only apparent voice among the group. “You didn't say to stay out, however.”

“I thought you'd be smart enough to catch the implications,” she responds quickly. “Now what is it that brings you to town and how do we get you on your way. Permanently this time.” 

“Funny enough, Sheriff,” Dylan's smile becomes cruel, “we're here to see you. Have a word or two.”

“You can have one.” 

Dylan's smile doesn't waver, “very well then, a word. Luke.” Dylan's eyes dance, his smile somehow growing.

“What?” The Sheriff's voice is a rasp. 

“Now you seem interested,” with a chuckle Dylan slips his gun into his holster and settles his hand on his hip. 

“Repeat what you said,” she demands. 

“Luke, Luke Castellan. He sends his regards. Wants you to know that he'll be coming through soon enough. Says he's excited to see you.” Dylan almost floats with joy. 

Sheriff Chase stands, muscles in her jaw working, lines in her forehead just visible under the brim of her hat, eyes set hard on Dylan. Even the deputy glances at her, eyes leaving his target for the first time. In the span of two breaths the world boils down to that street.

“Clean the blood off your face,” the sheriff growls, rifle swinging from her arm to point at Dylan. “And get out of my town.” 

The stillness of the town is disappears in the cloud of smoke as the sheriff's rifle lets out a clap of thunder. The shot rips over Dylan's head, scattering horse and man alike. She racks the action, squeezing off another shot that burns away what's left of their courage. Dylan flies into his saddle, kicking at his horse hard. The others follow fast behind him, their horses kicking up clouds of dust as they turn tail and run. 

She racks the action again, leveling the rifle and looking down the sights. The gun hangs there, barrel still trailing smoke, pointed down the road after the men. The air still hangs thick, enough so that Percy is buried in it, kept in place and forced to stand and watch. The deputy is closer, he waivers, his gun lowering, the rigid stance folding. Finger by finger he peels a hand free, stretching it out towards the sheriff. His weight shifts, tilting forward to reach for the barrel of her rifle. His hand is still in the space between them when her gun drops, stock still at her shoulder but the point of her rifle falling to point into the dirt. 

The sheriff's eyes run across the group of them, passing quickly over the others before coming to a rest on him. Her knuckles whiten, eyes narrowing. With hasty, defined strides she crosses the street to him, pressing up to him until he can feel the heat off her rifle. 

“What did you  _ do _ ?” She growls the words into his face, breath hot as it washes over him. 

“They started-”

“What are you _ running from _ ? What made you leave New York?” Her eyes flick between his, the gray a turbulent void that could pull him in and strip away everything. 

“I didn't- I didn't do anything,” there is no power, no weight behind his words. 

“You didn't do anything?” She sneers. “Then what shit luck do you have to be in the middle of everything?” Sheriff Chase turns on her heel, barrel of her rifle nearly catching Percy across the side. 

Deputy Grace looks at him a moment longer before trailing after, rifle swinging in one hand as he places the other on her shoulder only to have it thrown off. 

“What in the hell was that about?” Percy mutters to the street. 

As the silence and the calm work their way back into the street, so does feeling in his fist and side and stomach. Dylan's blows seem to have found their mark after all. 

“You'll have to forgive the Sheriff,” Beck's voice is a gentle rumble behind him. “Dylan brought up a sensitive subject, one that means trouble for all of us.” 

“Luke,” Percy says, remembering the shift in the Sheriff, like a fuse had been stuck. 

Beck gives a nod of his head.

“Who is he?” 

“The reason she became sheriff and,” Beck takes a breath, letting it hiss through his teeth on the way back out, “her brother.” 


	3. The Torch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actions have consequences, and in the quiet openness of the west, those consequences can echo.

The cold of the coins is a welcome relief, soothing the heat that has built in the calluses of his fingers. He turns them over in his fingers until they have pulled enough heat from his fingers and the air to burn. Percy gives them a final count, piecing together the numbers in his head slowly, painstakingly. In total it's a few dollars, though it's still more than what his mother pressed into his hand those months ago. 

He pulls the leather bag that's tucked under his cot, the buckle clinking softly as he works it free. The coins fall inside, sliding past the folded paper marred with ink to rest against the gun, wrapped in a cloth and left at the bottom of the bag. The bag goes back under his cot, kicked away behind the legs to sit in the lengthening shadows. 

The cot is a double layer of canvas nailed to a wood frame, covered in a couple thin blankets and pushed against the wall. It's narrow and a foot too short and already starting to sag but he falls into it like it's down and cotton and spacious. It's a league above the hard ground he sleep on during the ride here, and less cramped than the train car before that. Most of all it's his own, bought and paid for. 

The heat still pressing in, even as the day ends, the hours of work bent over hoof and nail, and the final relief at having enough weight in coin pull at his eyelids. Slowly, eventually they fall shut and Percy is content to let them stay that way. The last few hours of sunlight given up for a few good hours of rest. Not even the sweat soaked into his shirt and the dirt collected in his nails and hair can burrow under his skin deeper than the weariness already has. 

A bath will be needed, food will need to be eaten, more nails will need to be bought from Beck or made, but those are the tasks of tomorrow. Percy lets them float away on the tide of drowsiness as soon as they rise to the surface. 

“You going to lay there the rest of the day?” Beck's words are punctuated by the clatter of tools and metal. 

The noise is enough to jolt him back into reality, pulling back the sensation of having a body and all the heat, sweat, and soreness that go with it. 

“Mhm,” Percy answers, eyes still lined with lead and pressed closed. 

“You know there's things to do other than work or sleep,” Beck's voice is loud and clear and booming. 

“What would those be?” Percy asks, voice heavy and soaked in weariness. 

“Go to the saloon, get a drink, talk with someone. Maybe the Sheriff.” Percy's eyes flicker open at that. 

He stares up at the rafters, letting the silence hang between them long enough for the tension in his body to ease and the response to come out sounding natural and even.

“Not sure that's exactly where I'm welcome, especially by the Sheriff.” 

“You've been here over a week and shod a quarter of the horses, if you're not welcome now you're never gonna be,” Beck laughs. “Besides, you're not doing any good here and you're not making it smell any better.” 

Percy's brows pinch together, chest rising as he takes a deep breath through his nose. He can smell the sweat and horse and heat but it smells no worse than lingering odor of anyone else in town. Beck's words have found their mark though, the chance at a conversation that isn't one sided is a lure, and so is a better meal than what he can scrounge himself and maybe a song or two. His humming is nowhere as good his mother's. 

There is a groan to his cot as he shifts, pressing one foot to the ground and lifting himself up. Beck is standing half a room away and smiling like he's found gold as he sorts away tools. 

“A hell of an argument you put up there,” Beck says full of smile and confidence. 

“A wash doesn't sound bad,” Percy mutters, reaching for the spare shirt hung nearby. “And I could use a good meal.”

“I'm sure that's why you're going,” Beck's voice is strong even as he turns away from Percy as he says the words, sparing Percy from having the other man see the heat in his face or the shift in his eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Percy coughs, snatching the shirt up and standing. 

“If you're gonna wash you should wear something clean,” Beck's voice floats from over the crowded space, his shape half hidden behind benches and tools and equipment. “Here,” Beck emerges, a folded shirt in one hand, hat in the other. 

“You just had that? And a hat?” 

“You're gonna go into the saloon you need to be presentable. Wash, put those on, get out of here.” Beck presses both the hat and shirt into Percy's hands and turns. 

There's a limit to the arguing that can be done with someone who forces steel and iron to yield to them, and Percy hit that limit a week ago. As his mother would say a horse can be handled, it can be worked with, it can be talked to and understood, but a man is another matter. The night can be spent in his cot again, listening to the town as the darkness settles down and world stills, but the draw of a two sided conversation, of a decent meal and something other than these four walls makes the dirt on his skin crack and the sweat sting. Hat and shirt in hand he pushes himself from his cot, rolling the tension from his shoulders as he picks his way to the back. 

While the sun may have beat down on the rest of the town it has somehow missed the back of the blacksmith’s and notably the barrel of fresh water Beck keeps stood against the wall. Percy’s skin burns, prickles, and pimples as he pours scoops over his shoulders and head, the rivulets running down into his trousers until they too are soaked through. The sliver of soap that’s left of the bar he bought with his gear when he started the thousand mile ride is washed away with the dirt and grime. A bitterness burns the back of his throat as he watches it melt away, but by the time he’s rinsed himself and stands tall in the waning light that taste is far less bitter and far more refreshing. A few cents spent to buy another won’t kill him but it may make him feel more human again. 

His trousers have to be shed, swapped out with the pair that has the least amount of dirt on them. Percy pulls the fresh and borrowed shirt over his head, the shoulders falling a bit wide on his frame but the length matches well enough. The cloth is thicker and warm and not worn enough to see through at the elbow and cuffs. Percy stands a little taller, shoulders pulled back and square. He takes in his own kit, the ragged hem and cuffs of shit shirt, the stains on the collar, the snags and catches in his trousers. It’s all earned by sweat or blood, bought by the labor of his own back and well worked for, but it isn’t much to speak of. New Athens is well enough, a town he can stay in at least long enough to order a pair of new shirts and a pair of trousers. 

The hat is the last to be picked up, his fingers brush over the soft felt that’s been shaped and formed and starched. It drinks in the dimming light, only a touch lighter than Blackjack’s fur without the shine and luster. He spins it in his hands, taking in the curve of the brim, the folded and hemmed edges, the thin strip of fabric set just under the brim barely marred by sweat stains. With all the grace and confidence that he can pull from the memories of watching other Percy cups the hat in one hand, fingers of the other pinching the brim. He pulls the hat over the front of his head, sliding it back and down to settle just above the curve of his ears. The fit squeezes just enough to be noticed, but a haircut wouldn’t kill him and would only help the fit.

“Starting to look respectable,” Beck’s voice drifts from the shadows of the work space. 

A match strikes and a lamp flickers to life, the shadows dancing across the man and the room. Everything is thrown into a warm orange that shifts and writhes, making the room seem to move, to shift, to sway under the flames.

“We’ll get the city out of you yet.” 

Percy huffs a dry laugh, weight shifting between his feet, hands rubbing at his legs. There’s no mirror and it’s too dark to see anything in the water Beck quenches the iron in, so he’s left to take the other man’s words at face value. 

“One last thing,” Beck says, reaching to a worktable beside him. He pulls a dark leather belt from the table, buckle glinting, a line of loops circling the belt that stop just short of a holster. “If you’re going to cause more trouble, you should be prepared for it, or at least look like you are.” Beck smiles, the light of it flickering in his eyes before going out. 

“You think it’s a good idea I take that?” Percy licks his lips, hand curling at his side. 

“I don’t know honestly, but I have a feeling you’re going to need it one day or another.” The belt and holster are extended, swinging slightly in Beck’s grip, the ends held in his fist to loop the belt, holster held at the lowest curve like the gem capping a necklace, like a noose awaiting its owner. 

There’s a shake to his hand, one that ripples up his arm to roll into a burn that seizes through his shoulder and into his neck as he reaches for the belt. The weight is somehow nothing and everything, an open potential for all the wrath it could call down upon him, and all the times he’ll need it in these lands. The wide leather band sits easily enough on his hip, freshly oiled and clean the buckle slips home without a hitch, settling at the waistband of his trousers. Without a gun there’s nothing to it, the thick leather evenly spread across his frame to hang easy and lifeless. 

“Only one thing left to do,” Beck’s voice is low and steady and far to calm given that Percy is about to make himself a marked man, about to hang iron and gunpowder and lead and death on his hip. 

Percy can only nod, neck stiff and shoulders tight. He kneels at his cot, eyes on the wall as he closes fingers around the bag, dragging it across the ground until it falls into the lantern light, the dark leather turning rich and deep. He doesn’t toss the cover back, doesn’t make a show of opening the bag, only slips his hand past the loose leather tie to disappear into the darkness and pull out the thin cloth covered gun. It sits in his hand a second, halfway between the bag and the holster, balancing on a choice Percy is still making. The cloth shifts, moved by a breeze or a tremor Percy doesn’t feel, and the light catches the grip, dancing on the polished wood and metal, shining it in a light that almost makes it warm, almost makes it inviting. 

His thumb pushes the cloth back, tracing over the embossed letters seated squarely in the center of the wood before the light finds them. The letters stand in light on one side and shadow on the other, gleaming in the darkness, marking them, the gun, its history for what it is. Percy traces his thumb over them again, hoping they’ll pull up memories of the man that held this before him, of a dark blue uniform trimmed in gold and smelling of salt and the ocean. What it brings up is the smell of burnt powder and blood and the shaking hands that held it. 

He throws off the rest of the cloth, hand wrapping tightly around the cold metal until the edges bite his skin and pull him back to the blacksmith’s and the night and what he’s doing. The gun is shoved into the holster, seating until the barrel and trigger and chamber are all pressed between leather with only the hammer and grip extending into the night air. Percy pushes away from the cot, pressing off one foot to stand, to square his shoulders and feel the belt tip under the weight of the gun. He looks down at the pistol at his side, at his worn and scuffed boots, at his trousers and shirt and upwards until he meets Beck’s gaze. 

“You at least look ready for trouble,” Beck smiles, the air around him easy and warm. 

“I suppose I do,” Percy mutters. 

“Well, you gonna stand here all night?” 

Percy blinks, hands moving to rest on the belt, to hang by his sides, to go somewhere. 

“You’re not coming?” 

“I’ve got things to finish up here. Besides, who’s to say I don’t have my own plans?” Beck throws him a wink and steps back into the workshop, humming a tune Percy can’t place as he busies himself around the space. 

Left with nothing to say, a hat and a gun and a clean outfit there’s little direction but the saloon and whatever the rest of the night will bring. The street is a fair dip cooler than the blacksmith’s with its lingering heat from the forge and enclosed walls. Percy lifts his shoulders, tucking his chin down closer to his chest and walks the empty, dusty roads between Beck’s and the saloon, taking back those steps he made the first day here. The night is bright above him, the stars burning across the sky like the pinpoints between threads of a blanket thrown across the sun. He makes it to the end of the street before turning to look back over his shoulder, sparing another glance at Beck’s as it glows orange and warm in the light, shadows dancing inside on the cold and quiet street. Percy turns to face his new home, his second chance, his small semblance of life he’s carved out in this open territory. He allows himself a smile, a small thing that pulls at the side of his mouth but something, enjoying the first steps towards  _ something _ . Still taking a look at Beck’s he takes a step back, heel scraping the dirt as the pivots and turns, setting his sights on the lights of the saloon and the noise that drifts off of it in waves. 

The saloon is a oasis of singing and movement and noise and laughter and  _ life _ in an otherwise quiet and empty land. Every light burns to fill the open parlor with warmth and brightness and, unlike Beck’s single lantern, a steadiness as men and women go about their night in whatever activity suits their fancy. A handful of tables spread across the room are filled with men and their drinks, hands full of money or cards or a mixture of both as they sit across from one another. Some sit slumped back in their chairs, legs splayed out and stretched into the aisles between tables, while others sit stiff board backed and still others are hunched over the table as to be wooing it. 

Across the room is the bar, mirrored back reflecting the light and revelry and life back into the room between the clear and dark bottles of alcohol lines neatly across the back wall. A long wooden counter stands between room and back wall, a few men, some with their companions, scattered across its length in cluttered groups that keep between themselves and the barkeep that slides back and forth the length of the room easily enough. Her hands move faster than her red hair follows, serving out drinks and comments and laughs. Scooping away the passed coins and bills as quickly as she clears away empty glasses.

Rachel, he remembers, someone that spoke to him, and given the familiarity he holds with the rest of the town, a familiar face. Making his way across the saloon is a matter of following in the wake of the few patrons that step in front of him and striding across the open spaces between them. The stands at the bar, both hands resting against its edge, waiting for Rachel to drift back down his direction or to catch his eye or to acknowledge in some way that he is there. Percy eyes the glasses set before the other patrons, a choice seems to be between the heavy amber of whiskey poured into short, fat glasses, or the foam topped watery chestnut of beer poured to the brim of tall, robust mugs. The taste of the last shot he took returns, scorching down his throat to boil in his stomach, though the sight of a beer, foam and all only sours that feeling. The smell of smoke pushes in on him in the midst of this turmoil, pressing down in a heavy layer it seems to force out all the air, carrying with it the sounds of shuffled cards and growled curses. 

Percy grips the bar, fingers dragging against any edge and crevasse in the polished top, ready to push away, ready to turn back and walk to his cot and the quiet and the fresh air. He swallows hard, closing his eyes and squeezing until his fingers hurt.

“Doin’ alright there?” Rachel’s voice breaks through the rushing memories. He opens his eyes, blinks at the increase in light, the seemingly sudden quiet. 

“Yeah,” he croaks, “Yeah I’m alright.” 

“Beer or whiskey?” Rachel puts two glasses on the bar top, hands resting on either side of them, eyes focused on him. 

“Dunno,” he mumbles, torn between the two glasses. 

“Since you seemed to enjoy the last drink  _ so much _ ,” Rachel pulls the tall glass, Percy immediately tasting the burn of whiskey again but the glass is filled and slid back in front of him. The foam at the top is thin and already bubbling away, the liquid warming by the second. “I wondered how long it would take for you to turn up in here,” she says as he takes the glass. 

“Why is that?” he asks into the glass, shoulders dropping slightly. 

“Even if you hate it the life and the noise, it takes time to quit.” 

Percy pulls his eyes from the beer in his hand, taking in the easy curve of Rachel’s smile, the set of her shoulders, the weight in her stance and presence a stone the conversation and life of the saloon flow around. 

“You’re a New Yorker,” Percy says, words falling from his mouth. 

Rachel’s smile blooms, “You’re quick. Some people never figure it out, have to be told.” She pours herself a beer, raising it from the keg below the counter to tap it against Percy’s. “To New York,” she cheers.

They lift their glasses in unison, Percy pulling enough of the bitter liquid to feel he’s met his obligation while Rachel pulls a long enough drink to finish the foam from the top. Percy’s glass hits the counter with a soft clink, another in a continuous series that fill the room. He twists the glass in his fingers, spinning it slow enough to keep the liquid inside from shifting and circling. 

“Anyone in particular you’re looking for?” Rachel asks, her own glass still in hand, still lifted off the bar. Percy lifts his eyes without lifting his head, taking a breath to weigh his words before he opens the corral to let them free, and finding none he can pull the trigger on, he gives a shake of his head. “Shame,” she says easily, “might have been help you out if there was. If you’re looking for another drink let me know. If you’re looking for a game go for anyone that Piper isn’t at. If you’re looking for a girl, the Sheriff will likely drop by in an hour.” 

There is no weight or force behind the words, they’re said as easily as noting the weather or pointing someone west. Rachel stands behind them too, unmoving from her spot to rush to any of the patrons that lean over the counter for her attention, staring down Percy and the beer he keeps pressed between his fingertips. She watches as he processes, as he weights and thinks his response through, ignoring the quick beats of his heart or the burn that creeps past the collar of his shirt. 

“Thank you,” he finally says, words as even as the horizon and empty and dry as the planes around them. 

Rachel huffs through her nose, a noise that Percy takes as a dismissive laugh, only backed by her quick turn and quicker departure, leaving Percy alone again in the oasis, surrounded by possibilities and options. He twists away from the bar, away from Rachel’s comment, and out towards the room as a whole, taking in the hive of life and motion and noise that sat as his back. Facing it in full brings a new volume to it all, no longer sheltered by the bar he is cast in it, all he has to do is pick a current to follow. 

Seats are filled by faces he can and cannot recognize, some of them customers whose horse he’s shod and others those he’s seen through the streets, or even in the same chair from his first weary and dust soaked encounter with the saloon. The latter of these that catches his attention is the woman with a pair of braids that fall over her shoulders and cards in her hands.  _ Piper _ , he remembers, the girl that started the incident with Dylan, or more so from the incident that Dylan started. She wears the same vest, what he sees as the same shirt, and seems to sit in the same chair she did over a week ago. If his throat still burned from the dust and drink and he was a hundred miles more saddle sore he’d think he was back in here that first day. 

Percy picks her over, catching the wear of her hat, the polish of the handle of her knife, and the beading on the back of her vest that he missed before. The beading is what pulls him in, a sea of red that’s cut with with bright yellow in a four pointed swirl and bordered in that same yellow. He’s still caught in the detailing of the artwork on her back, the one that must have taken hour after hour to piece together, each bead so carefully placed and sewn into place, one after the other. It’s the pull of a gaze that brings him out of his enrapture, a pair of dark brown eyes burning into him that as soon as he meet, challenge him to step away from the bar and into her territory. 

He swallows the lingering taste of beer, giving into that pull and challenge, stepping away from that shelter of the bar and into the tides of the parlor, losing himself in the city he has cast himself into. Her table is in the middle of the room, every seat filled with a man that stays focused on his cards, eyes only flicking in her direction or towards the others. Percy keeps his distance, never hovering, never looking over a shoulder or at a card or the money. Years of nights spent forced to traverse the space around a table like the riptide have made him a steady swimmer, and a small table in this town isn’t going to pull him in. 

It takes only another hand before a man throws his cards down, table empty of money in front of him, chair barking as it slides across the floor when he stands. The other men stay long enough to gather up the money still in front of them, deciding that what they’ve lost is enough for tonight or that if their companion has seen fit to leave the table they should follow. There are now four seats open at the table, each facing in towards a woman whose eyes turn back to Percy with all the heat the earlier day carried and as much threat as a loaded rifle. 

“Take a seat, play a few hands,” her words are sharp and quick but roll so smoothly off her lips. 

“Not interested,” Percy keeps his tone light, voice even.

“Don’t know how to play?” she smiles at him, stunning and bright and too easy. 

“I know how to play, just don’t have any fondness for the game, or those who play it. No offense to you,” he dips his hat, taking the motion slowly and keeping his eyes on her. 

Her smile turns, shifting with the tilt of her head that she gives him. Her eyes roam over him, drifting down and back and only catching the gun at his hip on their way back up, they stay there long enough for Percy to shift the still in his hand and feel the heat in his neck as the weight of the gun builds. 

“That,” she brings her eyes back up to his, “sounds like the words of man who knows the game. Take a seat anyways, I don’t have anyone lining up to play.” 

Percy takes the offer, pulling a seat as his own and sinking into it, his drink set on the table, feet kept under him and back straight. Piper sits in her own seat, weight shifted back, one knee cocked to the side and a foot out, hand held close to her knife, resting easily in her seat like she owns it, own the table, like she’s holding court. 

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say that you hadn’t moved from this spot since the day I rode into town,” Percy says, pushing his drink slightly away. 

“You  _ don’t _ know any better,” Piper responds quickly, smile appearing on her face only after Percy feels the tension ripple in his shoulders. “But that’s besides the point. What brings a city boy, and an East Coaster at that, all the way to our insignificant little town?” 

Percy gives a shrug, pushing his beer back the few inches he moved it, watching the liquid slosh in the glass as he does. 

“Not much of a choice,” he says reluctantly. 

“Then we have that in common,” Piper's words are laced with a bitterness that Percy has only tasted a dusting of. He may have been forced as much as her people have, but he still has a chance of going home, and there was only one death to get here. 

“What about you?” Percy's voice is tighter, rougher than it was a second ago. “What brings you out here?” 

“The chance to win some money. One day I'll have enough to buy our land back.” There's a haunting emptiness to the smile she gives him, it's thin and worn and no better she shape than the clothes he left on his cot.

“You seem to be doing a hell of a job at it,” Percy nods to the small pile of money at her hands. “I'm glad I don't play, saves me from having to give up the money I just earned.” 

Piper's smile warms, less threadbare and more sincere. “I wouldn't take it anyways.  _ I _ don't steal from a brown man.” 

Percy gives her a sheepish and wide smile, a string of tension in his spine slipping free and easing away. In a town full of strangers there's at least one less set of eyes looking at him with some combination of curiosity, dislike, and distaste for him to figure out. Piper grabs a glass that's left with only the dregs of a beer, the head long flat and what carbonation was poured from the keg is well and gone.

“Here's to the shitty road that drove us here,” Piper holds up her glass with a tip of her head, holding the pose for Percy to do the same or at least respond in kind.

Percy tightens his grip, lifting the glass and meeting her eyes to catch the shimmer buried in their depths.

“Here's to getting home,” he offers, the words quiet and low.

She cocks her head, smile slipping from bitter and dry to an open softness, his words easing out at least a little of the pain, washing away some of the bitterness to taste the hope she carries with it.

“Cheers,” she rasps, the single word thick and heavy. 

They drink, Piper knocking back what's left of her drink and clapping the glass back down on the table, Percy quaffing enough that when he pulls the glass from his lips he has to suck in a breath. 

“I don't think I've actually introduced myself,” Percy voices, hand rubbing against his trousers before he reaches across the table, weight pressed into the edge of his seat. “I'm Percy.” 

“I know who you are, but I'm Piper McLean,” she places her hand in his, warm and soft and small compared to the rough and dirt stained skin of his own. “Strangers aren't common, and word travels fast in a small town.” 

Percy nods, familiar with how word can travel in a neighborhood or burrow, even in a city as big as New York, though having that many whispering lips and eager ears may only fuel the rumors. 

“What is it you've heard about me?” Percy asks with a rise to his voice and a quickly souring beer in his stomach. 

An eyebrow raises from across the table, Piper's eyes shining and deep and warm, shaded with the pride of knowing  _ something _ but without giving any hit at what. It would be easy enough to see why she runs the table, and why he'd been warned to stay away from it, even if he'd been as deep in his drink as his step father got. For a heartbeat Percy wonders at the sight of seeing a Cherokee girl cleaning that table, even at the cost it'd bring him in the end. 

He shoves that thought away with another drink, letting the taste of his drink sour his tongue rather than the memories. 

“You've had some interesting conversations with the Sheriff. And you've nearly gotten yourself killed by Dylan,” Piper tips her glass, “ _ twice _ . That's a hell of a week.” 

“Can't say I'm proud of that, or that I'm eager for the attention, but I didn't start either of those incidents.” 

“Really? The Sheriff gives a hard shell but who knows, maybe she'll open up.” There's a lacing to her words, something soft and hinting and implied that causes him to shift in his seat. 

“Not sure I'm interested in that,” he forces out, words quick and strung one after the other. 

“I'm sure,” Piper says, leaning back into her seat and opening her mouth to say more but her eyes shift, flicking to the door where they hang, raking over something or someone.

Percy twists in his seat, elbow pressing into the top, legs creaking as his weight shifts. In the door stands the deputy, hat in hand, silver star on his chest shining as it peers from around his jacket. There's no rifle in hand but his pistol sits on his hip, his stance unburdened by its weight or by its pull. There’s a thought for a second that runs through his head that even if the deputy took the gun off his hip, the weight in his stride and height in his shoulders wouldn’t diminish an inch, and not a single person in the room would look at him any different. 

The deputy steps slowly through the room, giving out greetings and nods and firm hands placed on shoulders, his steps timed and paced, never bumping another patron. Percy watches this, eyes the man's long strides and calm demeanor, the way the room almost stills around him. When he turns back Piper’s gaze is still across the room, still drawn to the deputy. 

“So,” Percy broaches, “Deputy Grace.” There’s little more to say than that, the statement made, leaving it to Piper to make the next move and decide where this path will lead them. 

“That it is,” she says coolly, eyes slowly roaming from him to Percy. 

She pulls the cards from the seats where they’ve been left, taking the ones placed face down before Percy last, stacking them together before splitting the deck and shuffling, the fold of card a quiet hum. She repeats the motion, flipping the shuffled and reshuffled deck to him, fingers posed around it in waiting. 

“Cut the deck,” her voice is a challenge, the act the start of a game Percy doesn't know the name of let alone the rules.

His hand moves, fingers meeting the edge of the stack, the cards frayed and worn in and handled well. They hold there, pressing in until the cards dig into skin while he catches Piper's eye. Percy's fingers shift, sliding up the deck until he has a single one placed to the top of the deck. He slides the card off, letting it land next to the deck with his finger pressed down on it like the heat from Piper's glare will blow it away. 

“That's a shit move,” she says, hand reaching for the cards, eyes still burning into him.

“Seeing as how I have no idea what we're playing…” Percy finishes with a shrug, keeping the smile from his face. 

“Poker,” she says flatly, dealing out the cards between them.

“Thought you didn't take money from brown men.” Percy takes the cards regardless of his objections, pulling them towards him without bothering to lift them. 

“We're not playing for money, just playing,” she lifts her own cards, fanning them to read each of the five before sliding them back into a single stack and laying them on the table, the movement easy and smooth and happens before Percy can blink. “Bet’s to you,” she gives a wave of her hand in his direction.

“Check,” he calls past the lump in his throat. 

“Raise a dollar,” she says smoothly, shifting her cards to splay across the table with a finger.

Percy gives a nod to call and match her imaginary raise. Piper nods in turn, hand moving back to the deck where it waits, posed over the cards at the ready. 

“Cards?” She asks, eyes focused on him like an owl watching a field mouse.

“No cards,” he says, leaving the five he's been handed on the table.

Piper stiffens, hand hovered over the cards, eyes flicking between his as she takes him in, reads him. Her eyes slide down his shoulders, stay at his hands, and slowly slide back up to his eyes. Whatever she reads him for is either worth keeping close to her vest, or it’s not worth bringing up at all. Instead of answering, she pulls three cards from her hand, sliding them forward and peeling three more off the deck. 

“Three,” Piper says, as she flips the cards enough to read them, the word a formality more than anything. “Bet’s to you,” she says, eyes still focused on her cards, still weighing the options. 

Percy taps his cards, signalling a check. As much as betting a few more imaginary dollars appeals to him, ending this game and getting on with the charade appeals far more. There’s nothing wrong with the game, but there’s nothing to the game, imaginary dollars tossed out between hands of cards that take up time and distract them from the rest of the evening. 

“So the Deputy,” Percy offers, tilting his head and leaning back into his seat, hand resting easily on the table. “What’s his story?” 

Piper’s shoulders shift, squaring, her eyes pulling from her cards for a beat to flit across the room and sit over Percy’s shoulder, before her gaze moves back to the cards in her hands. 

“Raise,” Piper says quickly, “another dollar.” 

“Call,” Percy says just as quickly.

Piper’s cards flip, the faces up, staring into the sky, red and black stacked neatly one over the other, bold lettering and color declaring a strong hand. Percy nods, letting the player shine through the hand, counting the moves and the bets against one another. He flips his own cards, finally glancing at them, his peripheral catching the frown that washes across Piper’s face as she looks them over too. 

“Trip eights,” she says flatly, words falling onto the table and drifting away with the noise of life around them. “Pot is yours.” Her hand swipes across the table, folding up the cards into a stack, palming them and setting them back into the deck. 

Where she should split the deck, taking a half into either hand and shuffling, blending the two halves and folding the dealt cards back in she hesitates, fingers poised over them but not touching. 

“The deputy’s been the Sheriff’s right hand since he rode in,” her voice is low, dying before it makes it past the table and kept to Percy and herself. 

“Where exactly did he ride in from?” Percy throws a glance over his shoulder where Deputy Grace stands at the bar with Rachel. “And what do you have to do for the Sheriff to trust you the day you ride in?”

“Fort Sill,” Piper’s voice is dry and brittle. “And it’s simple, be a cavalry officer.” 

This time Percy doesn’t glance, he turns, marking the set of Deputy Grace’s shoulders and the way he holds his weight. Authority marks a man like a stain, where Percy had seen the aura of the law he can now see the entire making of a soldier, not a man given a gun and a badge and the head to go with it, but a man built to lead from the ground up. Piper is still shuffling cards when he turns back, her attention poured into the deck as it folds one over the other. There is a set to her jaw, the muscles working to clench and release, her eyes flickering between the cards she handles and the space between herself and the man across the room, torn between what she is supposed to be doing and what draws her attention. 

The pull of the two tides bleeds out from her like a ship sinking on the shoals, palpable in the dryness of his mouth and the twitch in his fingers. Percy is aware now of the room more than ever, the noise of talking patrons and glasses a cacophony over the smell of drink and sweat and flesh. There, past Piper and this table and the game they play that doesn't count for anything is a piano standing in the corner, bench pressed to it open and empty. 

“Who plays the piano?” Percy asks, changing the tides to drag them from the shoals and into safer though unknown waters. 

“The piano?” Piper twists, braid falling over her shoulder from her back. “Mostly nobody. Sheriff might play a song or two if she's in the mood.” 

“The Sheriff?” Percy shifts, chair rasping against the floor. 

Piper pulls her eyes to him, brows pulled back like the hammer of a gun. “The Sheriff,” she repeats. 

He looks back to the piano, worn wood and stained keys, left to wait until someone deigns to pluck the keys and play the instrument for any and all who may listen. The wood and ivory and string is as inviting as any other table or conversation here, with an open seat that will patiently wait for him to take his time, to build the courage should he need but with far less judgement or callousness. If anything it will be Percy who stumbles and falters through the conversation, his fingers and arms and mind working to remember the cords taught to him years ago. 

With a scrape of chair legs on the floor and the widening eyes of Piper his choice is made, leaving him to carry himself across the room and pull the bench from where it is tucked under the keys. He clears the space required for his knees, the bench barking softly on the worn floorboards, creaking under his weight as he sits. His fingers brush the dust from a few of the keys, a tiny and fine layer that has built up in the days since someone else sat here. 

Fingers find their place and the first notes ring, the wires still taught, still set to their pitch, and the muscles in his arm relax. The smoke and smell and noise have to be pushed past, his memory dragging up the image of the piano that stood like this one but in the corner of his home, his mother lingering over his shoulder as his fingers picked at keys in a time that waived and slowed. He closes his eyes and pictures it again, the light that filtered through the window, the smell of baking and salt and soap, warmth and coziness and the Atlantic breeze. Her fingers rest on his shoulder, tapping a beat into his muscles that steadies his bouncing foot until he has matched it, the pace ringing through his limbs and into his fingers. 

A thousand miles away, in the corner of the saloon, Percy places his fingers to the keys and presses them, notes playing gently in the boisterous room. His hands move, finding the next keys and pressing down again, meeting the timing that his mother taps away, releasing and finding their next place to repeat again and again, the notes becoming cords, the cords becoming bars. The music plays, rusted and ragged at times, missing beats only when his fingers tumble over themselves or hover over keys as he questions the movement. But the music plays. 

One song flows into the next, the pace rising with the tone of the song he plays, something he laughed along to with her on that bench when she taught him, a smile spreading to his lips, shoulders sliding down as every keystroke pulls another drop of tension from them. When the song runs out, the last notes vibrating still in the strings and through the air he feels the warmth of her standing beside him. Percy turns, eyes still closed to see her face, but when his eyes open he is met with gray eyes that search his face as if they will explain the smile or the music. 

The world melts back to cigarette smoke and stale beer and the murmured voices of others behind him. It turns back to the saloon and the town and the open nothingness beyond it, back to the thousands of miles between himself and the ocean, himself and New York, himself and home. Percy pulls his hands from the piano, settling them on his legs, palms pressed down, fingers digging into his trousers. 

“That was good,” the Sheriff offers. “You sound a little rusty but it was good. Where did you learn?” 

Percy licks his lips, swallows past the dryness and the lump in his throat, wishing the beer had the decency to dull this buzz if it was going to spoil in his stomach. 

“My mother taught me,” he says, voice a dry croak, too coarse and rough and haggard for any reasonable conversation. 

Annabeth nods, lips pressing together a moment and something shifting in her eyes, “She taught you well.” 

“Uh, thank you,” Percy says, turning back to the piano, staring into the keys as if they can provide him something in this. 

“Do you know any more songs?” she asks, words slow enough he could think they are hesitant. 

“If I can remember any,” he says, nodding his head, hands moving back to float over the keys in an attempt to draw back that memory, but the warmth that comes from the Sheriff beside him is not the warmth he remembers. 

It is something far distant, much more a burning that will consume and drive, not one that shelters and guides, he is lost in this thought, in deciphering what this means and how he can tamp it down to bring back the memory to slip into when he hears the first holler, someone yelling, cheering, from the night outside. His eyes dart to the side, Annabeth’s profile still there beside him, but when he turns his chin it’s not the piano she’s looking at but the door. Another shout, muffled and distant but there, breaking the quiet of the night and piercing the rumble of the saloon. Percy’s stomach drops, slipping to somewhere beside his feet. 

“What in the goddamn hell is this,” the Sheriff mutters, stepping away. 

Percy follows her path, glancing through the shutter doors to the world outside, spotting the glow of light that bleeds from somewhere. The Sheriff isn't yet halfway across the room when first shot rings out, a score of cheers and whoops following that float in on the night air to the now quiet saloon. Her step falters, lands, and then she's off, hand on her pistol, boots slamming down. 

The room spins, the sudden shift to quiet pulling the air from the room as the town listens. It's the glow that pulls him though, the light from some gathered source that makes him push away from the bench and follow in her tracks, reaching the doorway as she's hitting the street. The direction, he realizes, the placement in the town puts that glow one street over and down, back the path he walked here tonight, back to his cot and the work space. Back to Beck's.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The night air whips by, cold and thin, carrying with it the sound of men and voices, the sound of danger and  _ violence _ . A glow breaks over the roofs of the closest buildings, orange and red, a crown that sits on them heavy and shining. Annabeth’s legs carry her through the quiet and dark street outside the saloon, one hand pressing down the holster at her thigh, the weight slamming into her muscle with every pace, the gun warm and heavy and promising under her touch. The other hand holds the brim of her hat, keeping it from slipping off in the wind she makes, she will not round the corner to face this threat with anything but composure, with anything but a paced stride and a steady hand. There are men in her town with torches and raised voices and she can imagine the smell of whiskey on their breath and see the violence in their eyes. They will do as the men drawn to this territory do, they will challenge her, they will see a woman standing above her station, they will see a threat, and she will give them the best of it all. 

Behind her follow another set of heavy falling footsteps, an echo or a shadow that chases her through the night, the sound of boots hitting dirt spaced just a hair’s breadth further apart than her own to tell her the stride is longer, the figure taller. She still hears the scrape of the piano bench behind her, the ring of keys as a hand mashed them down. There might be time to glance back and see, confirm to herself that it’s Mister Jackson who follows behind her, gun at his hip sitting awkwardly, shifting his stance and is weight with it. But there’s no use to that, no garnered information that will help her when she turns this corner, Percy or not, it’s her threat to face. 

There had been a third set of footfalls that came streaming out of the saloon, heavy and sure and peeling away the second they’d cleared the porch and hit dirt. The Deputy is nothing if not loyal, if not clear headed in matters that don’t relate to Miss McLean. A soldier without is rifle is just a man in nicer clothes, at least that’s what her father had told her once as he stacked books and papers and walked out the door to lecture.

What’s left of their posse rounds on the corner, the light from torches reaching down the street to turn the dusty road to a sea of gold that shifts and churns, half way down the street are the same group from days ago and more. A handful among them have torches lit, hands and horses and men all shifting, moving, their shadows stretching long, dancing like marionettes in some sick macabre puppet show. It’s not the horses, or the torches, or the men and their guns that pull at her, it’s the man standing in front of his business, with a hammer in his hand and iron in his spine. 

Behind her the footsteps falter, scuffing against the ground before they stop, Annabeth left to continue down the street. Her pace is slowed, measured, timed to match the rise and fall of her chest rather than the pounding of her pulse in her temple. Her hand falls to the grip of her pistol, hand resting comfortably around it, fingers loose, ready, holding steady. The mob grows steadily closer, men’s features coming into focus in the dim light. The words shouted and snarled are clear now, no longer noise in the night air but intelligible words. 

“Now you gonna tell us where he is or you gonna make it hard on us?” Dylan's snide voice can be picked out, always full of arrogance, pompous and ignorant sounding.

“All these men that ride with you, and this is the one you let speak for you?” Beck's words are said with his head held high, voice clear and head turned towards someone else, someone at the back of the group.

“I speak when I need to, when there's something to be said,” the voice is keen and level and sharp and cuts through her spine to sever her from every nerve in her body. They go numb at once, no cool touch of her pistol or chill of the night air, she is awash in numbness. 

“You always did think there was something to be said, Luke” Beck's words are cold and flat, stinging of disdain and contempt. “Why stop now?”

Amidst the shifting horses one moves forward with an easy stride, the rider leaning forward over the saddle, reins loose in his hands, lips turned up in a knowing smirk as he pushes through the mob to come face to face with Beck himself. The light from the torches around him only highlights the jagged scar that runs from hairline to jawline, cutting across his eye, shadow thrown by the raised tissue to cast his face in a haunted shadow. If he didn’t already have a past etched into her’s, if she hadn’t already spent a lifetime flinching at his name, if she wasn’t already fully aware of the callousness and cruelty of this man, she would by the way he sits above Beck, all easy smile and self assured weight. 

_ Luke _ , the name is a gunshot inside of her, she’s already been outdrawn and now the bullet finds its home, burying itself inside her heart, breaking ribs and tearing lung as it burns through muscle and tissue.  _ Luke _ , he looms a dozen paces down the road, eyes fixed on Beck but she can feel the last time they bore into her, the ghost of that cold creeping back under her skin like a lichen of ice, crawling through her bones and veins.  _ Luke _ , he’s here, in her town, in what was  _ his _ town, riding in with ease, with a possy at his back, without a care for how he ripped everything away and rode off with blood on his hands and a bounty on his back. 

“I never liked you, Beck. I respect you, but I never liked you,” Luke’s voice is gravel across her bones, across her spine, across her nerves. 

“Personally, I did like you,  _ and _ respect you. Until you became a backstabbing bastard.” Beck’s voice is strong and defiant, no sign he’s speaking to a murderer. 

“Where’s this New Yorker, Beck? Give him up and we’ll be on our way.” Luke leans further forward, weight pitched into his stirrups, neck craned out over his horse. 

“Come down here and find out,” Beck growls. 

There is a breath of silence between them only broken by the pawing of horses, clink of spurs and bits and bridles. 

“How’s Silena doing, Beck?” Luke’s voice is laughter and mirth, every drop of it aware of what those words are, what they’ll do.

Beck surges forward, hammer swinging through the air in an arc at Luke that never makes it there. Two shots ring out, Beck faltering, the strength of his swing ebbing away, hammer pulled by gravity rather than anger as it tumbles out of his hand and to the ground. Beck follows behind it, body hitting the ground limp and lifeless as Dylan and a man to Luke’s right hold pistols that still smoke over his body. Luke is still poised over his horse, weight forward, grin still smeared across his face. 

“Beck,” the scream comes from closer behind her than she expected him, his footfalls once again echoing on the street, his shape a blur as he rushes past. 

Luke’s gaze drifts over Percy, but snaps to her, eyes shining in the torchlight, burning as they take her in, gleaming like the smile on his face. 

“Kill him, burn it,” Luke says like he’s giving out chores, one hand still holding the reins, wrists crossed as they sit across his saddle-horn. 

Dylan is the first to spur his horse forward, gun held out, hammer cocked back and sighted down at Percy as he cuts towards Beck’s body. A torch flies through the air, landing on the roof, another tossed so casually through the open entryway to the shop beyond, a third chucked hard into the depths. All of this happens with that cold still in her bones, nerves ringing like a church bell, there but useless, frozen, shocked.  _ Luke _ . 

Dylan laughs, cruel and vicious and victorious until the boom of a rifle deafens the street, the sound like bottled thunder unleashed, ringing ears and startling horses. Dylan is no longer laughing, his face twisted into pain and horror as lead finds skin and rips through flesh. He and horse fall, Dylan tumbling clear in time to miss the weight of his beast crushing his leg, a scream breaking from his lips. 

Pistols drawn, sights aimed, hammers cocked, and a few of them are leveled at her but still her nerves burn empty inside her, there but gone, like someone you cared for that left. 

“Shoot her and I’ll kill you myself,” Luke’s voice barks, face drawn into a sneer, his composure gone now, after there are two bodies in the dirt, after one of his own is one of them, only after guns are pointed at  _ her _ . 

Percy still runs, sprinting towards the growing flames, towards the men and their guns, towards the danger. Behind her a gun is racked, a heartbeat later another boom of thunder rips through the street and a man sags in his saddle, gun dropping from his hand, the gun racking again. Other guns fire, shots ringing in the night, bullets screaming past her towards her deputy, others towards Percy in his run. The chaos erupts, the already dim night now filled with shouts and smoke and dust, horses and men and guns all crowding the same space. 

Annabeth watches Luke through all of this, her eyes fixed on him, nerves only now burning back into control, fingers on her gun twitching, wrapping tentatively around the handle, fingertip pressing into the trigger. Her hand shakes as she drags the gun clear of the holster, thumb slipping against the hammer to cock it. 

Luke’s eyes are on hers, still gleaming in the night, drinking everything she does in, fixated like a hawk on its prey. He lifts his shoulders, straightening his back, reins slipping in his hand slightly before he tightens down on them. His eyes fall to her gun for just a beat, lifting quickly back to her face, to her eyes. His smile flickers, something dancing in it that takes her a breath to pinpoint and by the time she does he’s turned his horse and given it a kick, riding out into the night to disappear once again, this time with as much blood through none of it directly on his hands, and leaving Annabeth’s stomach to roil at the fact he looked at her with  _ pride _ . 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter took a while to get posted but I'm hoping the length of it made up for that. The ending I have no explanation for other than I could. If you enjoyed or you want to yell at me you can leave a comment or find me at son-of-rome on tumblr.


	4. The Bullet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A man is dead, the killer on the run, and it seems that only Annabeth knows the truth. What this means for everyone involved is up for her to decide, but fate can't be stopped, just postponed.

The floor crackles, golden embers writhing, shifting, glowing and winking out as the morning wind rolls through the charred beams and pushes thick, hot, wet smoke across the ashes and ruins. The blacksmith's had been full of heat and noise and work and bustle and  _ life _ , but now, now Percy stands in the scorched remnants that amount to charcoal and ash and haunting memories that are tainted with the smell of smoke and gunpowder and blood. This, Percy surmises,  _ this _ is hell. It is standing in an ever present heat that soaks through the ground into your feet and then into your bones, smoke burned into your clothes and skin until you can never get the smell out, ashes and soot dug into cracks and crevasses that you will never wash away, all while taking in what was left of your future, of what little you'd built, of your hope that was burned away from you while you watched to be left in the remains trying to dig out what you can. 

He feels the weight of the night before, of the hours spent throwing buckets of water on the flames, of dragging Beck from the burning building into the street. There had been nothing but adrenaline and fear when he'd run through Luke's gathered posse to drive into the flames. Beck had been gone long before Percy got to him, before Luke's gang had ridden out, before Percy had dragged him out into the street, but the moment the doctor had given a shake of his head, blond hair burning in the light, voice raised above the shouts of the bucket team. That moment had still ripped away the last breath of hope on this, on New Athens, on having anything since New York.  _ No _ , Percy realizes, hope had died in New York with the gunshot, with his stepfather, all that's left is the cards falling where they've been dealt. 

His toes are dug into a pile of dirt and ashes where his cot should be, should _ have been _ , where what little he had was tucked away to be safe. He kicks at an ember that still burns, shattering the brittle material, scattering it like everything else around him that he touches, but it uncovers the cracked and charred leather bag. He squats, hand brushing across the hot dust and flaking leather, fingers flinching at the heat that bleeds off of the buckle to sear his fingertips. Pressing his thumb into the burned fingertips eases the pain, if only enough that he doesn’t have to bite down on his tongue or cheek. He shakes his hand, easing the flow of blood that rushes to the fingers before wrapping them around the leather strap holding the bag closed and yanking, the deteriorated leather giving under his pull, snapping the strap and pulling the bag from the pile it sits under. Coins slide and clink inside, the noise muted and muffled by the leather wrapped around them, but there still. The bag folds away easy enough, leather creaking softly as it gives way and pulls apart under his touch, the coins sliding out into his open and waiting hand. 

The heat scorches his palm, the coins lasting long enough against skin for his hand to jerk away, coins sent into the air to gleam in the light that filters through smoke and ash before they tumble into the dust. His fingers and palm prickle, the heat still lingering in his skin, still creeping into his nerves, still traced over the callouses. It's only a few dollars in total, a week or so of work laid out in the dirt before him, more money than he left New York with but still not enough. It wasn't enough to buy his own bed or room, wasn't enough to keep him moving West across the empty miles to California. All it was, was enough to let him pretend at hope, that this town or any other would be the place he could start again. There's no money that can buy back a man's life, the only coin that can be given at that point is to the ferryman, a few silver pieces to ensure your ride to the other side. Percy stands, leaving the coin and the bag and the letter tucked away inside it there for the lingering flames and embers to take. The coins will do Beck better now, and maybe they're enough to buy back the debt be owes the man. The letter can't fit the words he'd need to write or hold the ink to express that death follows him like a vulture, and there isn't a chance he'll write home with anything but hope, true hope, even if it means his mother will think him dead. Better that by far than the man he seems to be turning into. 

Percy brushes his hands against his trousers, kicking off dust and ash, his palm grazing the holster that sits at his side. His arms stiffen, shoulders tighten, fingers curl into fists to press away the memory of the thing, hoping to bury the reminder that at his hip sits a mass of iron and gunpowder that is as cold now as it was last night. There are good bullets packed away in the chamber, lead that had no issue taking a life before still sitting, waiting, unfired and unthought of. 

Luke, the bastard who'd lead the gang into town, who'd told Beck to hand him over, who sat and watched and then _ provoked _ Beck to fight him, had ridden away without a scratch, without a single shot fired at him. The heat of the dying fire is nothing anymore, it's the heat that burns inside him that he focuses on. He watches Beck fall, gunpowder burning in the air and Luke smiling, fucking  _ smiling _ . And watching it all was the Sheriff, five feet in front of him with her hand on her gun and dead still. Percy had ran into the fire, to pull Beck at the chance he could have saved him while she had watched. 

Luke, who sent Dylan to give her a message. Luke, who sat slumped and easy in his saddle add he looked down at Beck.  _ Luke _ , who rode into town to kill him and took Beck instead. 

The walk to the sheriff's office lasts as long as it takes for Percy to piece these things together and burn the thoughts like coal in his bones, in his blood. His hand finds the doorknob shaking and clammy, gripping the metal like it's Luke's neck, wrenching it open to fly back and slam against the wall. 

Both sheriff and deputy spin on him, hands to holsters, at the ready and eyes burning into him. The sight of her so ready to draw only throws fuel to the fire. 

“Why didn't you shoot the son of a bitch?” The words shake as they leave his lips, his jaw tight and unable to form them in anything but a growl. 

The Sheriff keeps her eyes on him, but the Deputy, just there in his peripheral, glances into the cell where a man lays motionless. 

“Mister Jackson, I believe Doctor Solace told you to get some rest.” Her voice is cold and even and distant.

“You had the chance. You could have shot him before he ever got a word in. You watched him kill Beck,” his voice doesn't rise with the words, it lowers, but it _ burns _ . 

“Mister Jackson, I'll ask you not to-”

“You froze. You're afraid of him and you froze.” His voice is iron, solid and true and definite.

The sheriff's eyes blaze, the cold that lurks in the gray melted down to molten metal that swirls as she stares him down. 

“You'll keep your god damned voice down in my office. I have a prisoner.” The edge on her voice is sharp enough to shave with.

“Then we'll go outside, because I want to know who the fuck he is and why you let him ride off.” Percy steps closer, squaring off against her.

“If you expect me to argue with you in front of my town then you are dumber than you look,” her even voice throws back. 

“I expect answers,” he shouts, voice filling the tight confines of the office. 

This time the sheriff turns too, watching the figure on the cot shift and writhe, groaning slightly at the noise. There's no falter in Percy's resolve, no cooling of the fire or damper to the flames. The bastard on the cot can beg for mercy for all Percy cares but it won't take back the bullet that he put in Beck. Whatever they gave him for pain is too good for him, and a waste given they'll hang Dylan soon enough, at least they will if they have any good sense. Whatever complaints Dylan may have about being shot in the leg until they put the rope around his neck is little issue to him, the man can breathe, that's better then what Beck has. 

“You will  _ lower _ your voice,” the Sheriff says in something just the polite side of a growl.

“Why? So _ he _ can sleep?” Percy's voice doesn't lower as he throws a gesture towards the cell and the man inside of it still sleeping. “You’re going to let a  _ murderer _ -” 

Annabeth crosses the room while he’s speaking, one hand still resting on her holster, the other coming up to slam into his chest hard, pushing him back through the doorway and into the street with Annabeth driving him backwards still. The door swings behind her, slamming shut to rattle glass, Percy’s weight still thrown back, sending him stumbling another step. There is a single moment when the Sheriff’s hand leaves his chest, then it’s fisted in his shirt, fingers dug into the fabric to pull it across his shoulders until the seams dig into his skin. The grey in her eyes is lead, hardened and cold and every ounce as deadly as a bullet, with his name burned into them. She presses in on him, stepping up to push him back, his weight shifting into his heels, the rim of her hat cuts under his, the presence of her hand at his chest the same weight as a loaded gun. 

There is something about having her here in his space, fist in his shirt and presence  _ there _ , ready and primed and pointed squarely at him that shifts his spine straighter and makes his heart beat at time and a half. His eyes roam across her, the set of her shoulders, the muscles in her arm and jaw that stand out, the cold of her gaze. The badge and the gun give a weight to those who carry them, but layered under that, where the gun is hung from and the badge is pinned to is an edge, honed and keen and pressed at his throat. If he had the room he'd swallow.

“You walked into  _ my _ office,” she growls into his face, “you called me a  _ coward _ , and you think that entitles you to what exactly, Mister Jackson?” 

“You didn’t shoot,” his words are a statement, an accusation, a challenge.

“From what I remember I wasn’t the only one on the street last night. You were there too, standing  _ behind _ me, and you didn’t shoot either Mister Jackson. Why is that?” 

The challenge sits like a snake between them, poised, full of venom and ready to strike. 

“Beck was my friend,” Percy offers, skirting the thing between them.

“Was he, Mister Jackson? A week and a half here isn't it?” She pulls sharply on his shirt. “What do you think the rest of us are going through? Some of us knew Beck for _ years _ . We're  _ well  _ aware of what you're going through.” 

“You still have a man in there that killed someone,” Percy points over her shoulder, hand shaking for a moment, the motion moving him into to Annabeth, closing that space between them. 

“You’re right,” Annabeth says, voice smooth and easy, the cold there but laid into ice that coats every word. “He shot a man in the chest.” He hand moves from his shirt, fingers uncurling and hand dropping unceremoniously to her side. 

That threat, that snake that coiled between them he moved so quickly to step around is there again, poised between them, but now it has its head back, fangs ready, the strike coming. Annabeth steps back, head listing slightly to the side, eyes narrowing slightly and Percy can feel the weight of the world shift out from underneath him. 

“Except he didn’t shoot him in his mother’s living room over a game of poker.” The fangs sink in deep, burying themselves under Percy’s ribs, the venom spreading slowly outwards to burn into his heart sharper and deeper than any alcohol. 

The world had shifted before, now it spins, slips, and tumbles away into a void that grows inch by inch in his chest. Percy stands on the street with the Sheriff and in that apartment in New York at the same time, the world, time, gravity, all pulling the two points into one another until they are layered, one over the other, the pounding in his heart, the cold sweat, the pit in his stomach all the same. 

“H-how…” It’s all Percy can manage with adrenaline and poison racing through his blood, pounding in his ears, bleeding through his head in a foggy cloud to wash away any other thought but what Annabeth has just told him and the two words that come with it.  _ She knows _ . 

“News may travel slowly in these parts, but it still travels,” her voice is still that polished ice, heavy and cold and smooth. 

The venom tightens in his chest, constricting his ribs to crush in on his lungs, crush in on his heart, to drive the air out and hitch the beating for a moment, just a moment, just long enough for something other than the adrenaline and venom to sink in. It's something that bunches the muscles in his back, curls his guts until they're twisted over and over like a ball of twine, drenches him in sweat sweat as cold as the ocean. This feeling prickles at the back of his throat, roils in his stomach, itches at his nerves. 

“Now you may be of the same opinion as the Deputy and think that we should have left Dylan to bleed out in the street but I am not.” The Sheriff steps away, back to the door of her office. “That man in there will face the consequences of his actions, Mister Jackson, and at some point, so will you.” 

Her eyes remain on him as she reaches out behind her, flicking it open and turning on her heels, stepping into the office. The door shuts, leaving Percy standing in the street with his past hanging around him like a noose, tight and itching at his neck, with the other end securely in the Sheriff’s hands, but the question that remains is if there’s a gallows in between them. 

 

* * *

  
  


Her office is no less warm, no less dry, no less smelling of the remnants of the fire, which makes it no less free of the weight of the night before and the strain that lays like a yolk across shoulders that comes with it. What her office lacks, that she has dragged in through that dust and smoke is the bitter taste of the conversation with Mister Jackson. The words, the  _ accusations _ that she laid on him, that ripped through him like the crack of a bullwhip can still be tasted at the back of her mouth.  _ Murder _ . The newspaper article has practically become threadbare with the number of times her eyes have walked across it, picked out and put back together every single word and phrase and sentence. She has read his name a hundred times and the account of what happened a hundred more, or at least the account printed in heavy black ink and cramped curling letters on yellowed paper. New York is thousands of miles away across plains and mountains and dozens of state lines, it is for all practical purposes another world in itself but Mister Jackson has crossed that distance with a murder charge strapped to his back.

He has also ridden into her town, brought down the attention and wrath of Luke, caused two fights, and stood inside her office in view of her deputy and all the gods to declare her a  _ coward _ . She presses this list of injustices and grievances against herself to the other side of the scales as the single word she has leveraged against him and still she has to push harder to balance them. The eyes of a murderer loom large in her dreams, materialized out of them to ride into her town just last night, chase her even now in the light of day inside her office, in her town. Mister Jackson’s eyes may carry the depth of the sea on a warm night, pulling her with the same tides, but they they lack an edge she has seen that walks hand in hand with bloodied hands. 

It is those eyes, they way they widened, flicked between her own, became soaked in fear, that burn at her. They burn in her neck, in her shoulders, in her spine, a heat in her body that licks at her until sweat clings to her too soon in the morning. It does nothing to help the roiling acid that sloshes in her stomach, remnants of that article with his name that she can’t seem to digest floating in it. 

“Should I give you and Mister Jackson some privacy?” the deputy’s voice snaps her from her reprieve, lurching the acid in her stomach to slosh into her throat and burn the back of her tongue. 

The question is a flash food that washes away the thoughts of green eyes and gentle hands and what blood may be on them, leaving her open and standing against her door inside her office in front of her Deputy, daydreaming.

Her head lifts and eyes snap to where he rests against his desk, a foot kicked up toes pressed to floor and heel placed against his desk while his other leg stretches out into the aisle between their desks. His chin is tucked down nearly to his collar and his arms hang crossed over his chest. 

“I presume you would spend the time with Miss McLean?” Annabeth pushes away from the door, crossing the few strides to her desk to pull her chair back, still catching the way Jason’s spine stiffens with her words. “Since you don’t drink what exactly would you ask her to do with you?” The words catch the acid at the back of her tongue, said with a chill that does not match the season around them. 

A part of her burns with them, curls at the coldness and the bite, but she swallows and that part is pushed down,  _ far _ down beneath the surface until it is eaten away by the acid.

The Deputy's neck tinges a slight pink and he gives a small cough that barely reaches the corners of the room. He shifts off from leaning against his desk to standing in front of it, hands slipping free of where he has them tucked under or curled around a bicep to drift downward to his hips, thumbs slipping to press against his belt. 

Annabeth pulls her hat from her head, the first drops of sweat from the heat of morning and conversation with Mister Jackson caught in the brim that sticks to her skin. She has braided her hair into the same pattern that should by now have been worn into the strands and broken them like a horse, yet a few of them have pulled from the braid and now free of their corral, have gone astray. Her hat falls to her desk, shifting papers in its wake to flutter to a still no less organized and ill kept.

“Sheriff,” he broaches, voice even and level, pulling her attention from her desk, “we lost one of our own last night and-” he lifts his hands a moment to hold them up, palms out- “I don't mean to question you, but I would like to ask who the fuck this Luke fellow is.” 

Annabeth's eyes turn back to her desk, hands roaming over the papers strewn about the breadth, rippling them as she moves like wheat stalks in a breeze. They are her field, scattered and tossed and unplanned but hers and one of them is ripe, ready to be picked and pulled apart. She will sift through the article again and again until she has pulled the details from the page like the grain from the chaff. 

Jason's question is a roll of thunder across the field, there and heard and seen, a threat of something that could come or may pass. Annabeth bets that it is the latter, that this storm will roll past and she will continue her work. 

In the top of her vision, she sees the drop of his shoulders, the slip of his thumbs from his belt, and the shift of his weight back. Jason kicks off from his desk, boots falling against the wooden floors to echo in the room, the noise a soft jarring against the sound of rustling papers and heavy, deep breaths. The sound of footsteps slows, stops, the weight in the room shifting towards the door, the room now only filled with the sound of her work, Dylan breathing, and the air being drawn taught. 

A boot slides across wood, leather creaking gently as it settles or is shifted, the deputy’s breath hitching as he draws it in, then lets a short, huffed sigh back out. The paper in Annabeth’s hand flutters at the edges, her fingers gripped tightly on the page as they shake, not for any longer than enough time to shiver the paper, but still there. Jason has always been loyal, now the question will come if she can say the same about herself. 

“I have no issue defending this town and, if it comes to it, fighting, but I killed a man last night, Sheriff. If I’m going to have to kill more, I’d like to know why.” There is a hardness to his voice, a steel that has been worked and beaten and reheated over and over until it has folded on itself to work out every imperfection. These words may be freshly spoken but they are worn and worked and settled, they have been said until they too have taken the same hardness as the man who speaks them. 

There are as many pieces put together from the things he hasn’t said as there are from the things he has, a quietness that cuts through the noise that has told her enough about the man who rode into her town in the middle of a war, in a uniform he wore like it burned while pins on his chest gleamed. And as much as they have mutually let the cards sit on the table, hands unshown but every card counted, there is only so much space in this town and so few corners of the office to pretend to have missed the startled awakenings or distant stares. It is only his quiet and the recognition of her name he clamped down on that day, and held down ever since, that has stilled her own voice. 

Every man and woman has their own past, and while he has just placed another card on the table she will let it be, now she just has to hope he will do the same with the stained and bloodied ace she holds in her sleeve. 

In the space that draws between them, in the silence after his question, the deputy finds what he thinks is his answer, that she will not tell him who Luke is and what is affairs in this town will have to do with the killing that’s been done. Or the killing that is yet to come. The truth is that the silence is not an omission, it is the time it takes for Annabeth to parse the words from one another and force them up, sifting them and cutting the chain where needed so that they do not all fall from her lips as carelessly as spent shell casings. They are a bullet, one with her deputy’s name etched into it, the lettering her own slanted font that she started the day he rode into town. She holds that bullet now between her teeth and tastes the lead on her tongue.  

Jason turns back to the door, hand twisting the knob and the door clicking open as latch frees from door jam. It is only this noise that jars the first words to fall free, to be spoken, to rise like blades in her throat and burn across her tongue. 

“Luke used to live in town. We…” the words rip at her, tearing through skin and soul and conscience, “were friends.” She takes a breath that burns in her lungs, the air itself tinted with the burning at the back of her tongue, in her throat, but unlike before this is not acid that laces her tongue but bile. It rises on a tide, rolling from her gut as it tenses and tightens down. This, she tells herself, is the taste of guilt and lies but while she has to suffer this, they would both have to choke on the truth. “A couple men came through one day, shooting up the town. They killed a…” she hitches on the word, the bullet slipping into the chamber with a heavy clink. “A woman. The old sheriff didn’t go out after them,  _ wouldn’t _ go out after them.” Another blade sinks in, this one into her heart and driven by the memories of a steady presence and sunworn smile. “Luke took issue with that, he and the sheriff… they argued, so he rode out himself. Took his own justice.” A weight hangs in those words like bodies from the gallows. “Luke never came back after that.” 

The gun bullet is there, the gun loaded and held in her hand, and as she lifts her eyes to meet Jason’s face she lifts that gun with her, aiming the barrel squarely at him to sight just over his heart. His face is turned to the back of the building, eyes focused through the small door in the wall, at the slab of stone that sits ringed by a small fence in the patch of dirt and scrub grass that sits behind her office. 

“The old sheriff,” Jason repeats, the words reverent but still pushing that bile from her tongue and throat up into the roof of her mouth so the burning can run to her eyes even as she tries to swallow it down.  

There is little doubt in what he is seeing beyond that door, what he is picturing in his head and piecing together with the name and dates etched on that stone. They are another card that was delt and held long ago, another in her hand that his eyes have caught and never given words to. It’s the unspoken rules of the game they play in silence, always seeing and never saying. A game that’s always favored Annabeth, and favors her now as she’s the one playing with a loaded gun under the table. 

“What, uh,” Jason clears his throat, pulling his attention, his focus, and his eyes back to the room around them, “what has Luke been up to since?” 

Annabeth keeps her chin lifted, eyes focused on Jason, on the sharp blue of his eyes and the way they avoid her own. She ignores the flex of her fingers and the way they tighten on the papers in her hands, pushing out the urge to shift them from where he can see, to bury them in drawers and boxes and fire. 

“He started a gang. They call themselves the  _ Titans _ , seems they’ve been riding around the territory making a mess of things.” 

Jason’s eyes are drawn to the papers on her desk, his gaze picking out the portraits and letters and lies she sews. 

“As is normal,” his voice is empty and even, their years of work and the time taken to peel away that seeming callousness giving Annabeth the peace to calm at least a single breath. 

Jason shuffles away from the door, a swinging stride that takes its time in bringing him closer to her desk, his hands slipping back to the belt at his hips. 

“And now Luke’s come back, burnt up a building, and shot a man,” the statement is a kettle of oil he tosses over her. “Seems like a good friend.” 

_ Good friend _ , the statement so simply said rings through her like a hammer striking a bell, the noise echoing inside the hollowness of her bones.  _ Good friend _ , two words said so easily by a man standing in the dark, the truth a bullet that could rip through him and the gun aimed squarely at his chest.  _ Good friend _ , two words she would have used years ago, said them right up until the day Luke left town with another full grave. 

The bile in her throat has burned through skin and muscle and vocal cords, she is left raw and torn and wordless. All Annabeth can do is nod, some acknowledgement of what he’s said, that he’s spoken, but to unravel those two words takes pulling the trigger on that bullet. 

“So what do we do about him?” Jason’s voice is low, words said slowly, carefully, the weight of what they mean and who he was to her balanced carefully on them.

Annabeth swallows past the blades in her throat, past the raw and stripped skin, past the bile, past the tightening in her chest. Jason looks at her with the same weight, the same tension, the same straining patience that she feels across her shoulders, the weight of a choice that will determine a man’s fate and, in this case, take his life. 

“We do what we have to,” Annabeth presses the words through the pain and stomach churning knots, a flood of heat burns her bones and melts her muscles. 

The words should be ash on her tongue, they should be glass, they should be pain, but they taste like lead and copper and smoke. They taste like the guilt and shame and loss she swallowed all those years ago. They taste like her name. 

It is Jason who nods now, reverent to the fate Annabeth as the Sheriff, as the Law, has just bestowed upon him and those that ride with him. Jason is a soldier, taking orders, pulling triggers, they are nothing new to him, the only difference it seems is he can rest his head at night now. 

“Sheriff,” Jason’s says the title delicately, broachful of the fact he is going to ask a question that is beyond the reasonable and into the curious, a question that makes her finger shake on the trigger. “That girl that died, who was she?” 

This question has loomed over her like a gravestone for years, the wording engraved into cold flat stone that first day he introduced himself, gave his name to her and met her eyes. Annabeth has kept her eyes focused just past it, at something else beyond it that isn’t there, ignoring the toll of the bell that’s been ringing in favor the tune she hums in her head. She could have run a dozen horses into the ground from exhaustion and she still couldn’t have outrun these words, though she’s damn well tried. 

Her throat tightens, wants to swallow, wants to ease the dryness that cracks her tongue and leaves it sitting like leather in her mouth, but she pushes back on that, on any motion but the tension in her trigger finger to keep it still. Every hair span of a moment that goes by is another that question grows in the space between them, pulling apart the cracks and corners, peeling away the boards for the other questions to grow like weeds. She feels the trigger give under her finger, the thing sliding back to catch the release, all she has to do is try.

“She was just a girl,” these are the words that taste like ash and dust, that crumble in her mouth as she says them.

Her finger shakes on the trigger, joint aching with the strain of easing free as she slips it free. 

There is a shadow that forms in the crease between his brows, her words not enough weight to tip him in favor of believing so she keeps her shoulders square and puts that weight into her stare. The scale tips, the crease vanishes, and his weight rolls back onto his heels. 

“Fair enough. If it's alright with you I'm gonna grab a meal, want anything?”

Annabeth answers with a stiff shake of her head, face turning down to the papers and there, clutched in her hand is that gun, the hammer still cocked, the bullet still loaded, those two words packed into the casing. 

She has lied. She has made a choice. And when that time comes she will have the consequences. Because there will be a day she has to say that name, and now he will know she could have killed him swiftly but that she chose to wait. And now there is that chance it will be both siblings blood on her hands. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say thank you for all the feedback I've gotten on the fic. I appreciate every comment I get on here and every ask I get on tumblr. For those of you interested there's a playlist that goes along with the fic and it can be found on my blog son-of-rome on tumblr. 
> 
> Let me know what you think of the chapter and enjoy!


	5. The Badge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you take a step forward, and that step takes you backwards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being patient with this update. I can't promise they'll come any faster but I'm still working on them. Please leave a comment and let me know what you enjoyed.

It lays there, heavy and lifeless, wrapped around the post of the bed he borrowed, sitting at his feet through another night of restlessness. The thick leather folds and twists, blending in and out in the thin gray light that punches through shutters and curtains. The coils cloaked in scales of dark brown hide and shining brass, hiding the rattle of gunpowder and clicking metal, hiding the lead fangs so ready to tear into flesh, hiding smoke and fire it spits like venom. It is death, and loss, and it has sat at his feet free from the weight of what it has taken. 

But Percy has carried that weight across a thousand miles, he has run from it, been chased down by it, slept with it. He has lived in the panic and fear from the last time it was used and now the time it wasn't. It pulls at his nerves, that such a small thing can take a bastard's life and cost an innocent man his. 

If Percy hadn't worn it into town, if he'd pulled it on Dylan that day, or on Luke that night. Twice he had the chance to take the gun and use it to take the life of another man who lived on fear and terror, to save someone that sheltered him, and twice he let those chances slip away. Now, sitting in jail only a block away is a man partially responsible for his friends death, a man who knows where the others responsible are, a man that sleeps soundly inside while Beck is headed for the ground. 

Bullets clink over one another, leather hisses as it slides over itself, the end of the belt gives a small crack as it flicks through the air. Percy hangs the leather from his hips, the weight of the gun pulling it sharply to one side, a line that tilts across his waist and matches the unevenness of the world around him. He punches the metal tongue through the leather, yanking it into place and locking that coil of death and venom around himself. He takes the first step towards the door on cold, stiff legs, the point of the gun stretching against the leather, swaying with his step, bouncing against his leg, reminding him of what he carries. 

The door creaks, echoing in the empty hall lined with doors identical to his own, shut tight against the light of the morning, announcing his presence to the empty space of the saloon. He starts down the stairs, boots licking over the worn wood, taking steps with every pounding beat of his heart. Percy hits the bottom of the steps, heart thundering in his chest, blood crashing like waves in his ears, the gun swinging slightly at his side. 

There should be nothing between him and the sheriff's office except empty street and a few dust choked breezes, not a soul out on the street yet, let alone the shaded tables of the saloon, but the moment his steps quiet the silence is broken by the fold of a deck of cards being shuffled. The fan of cards, the clip of heavy paper slipping across fingers to fall against itself, holds him at the foot of those stairs. 

A pair of hands, dark brown and worn and nimble, split a deck, fold it back on itself, and bridge it, once again filling the desolate room with muffled clips and shuffling paper. Her braids hang over both shoulders, nearly black hair pulling in the light that breaks through dust smeared windows, hiding the weave of braids back and forth over one another. The chairs around her help fence in a table otherwise  empty except for a single deck of cards and a knife the length of his arm. 

The table, her table, sits between his spot at the stairs and the one exit, her seat a solitary island holding the mouth of the channel. The only course is to pass by it and weather the storm or barrage, aiming for the open waters behind her and the path to his target. So he slides between the empty tables, hands held by his sides, boots scuffing the wooden floors, eyes steady on the doors just over her shoulder. 

“Morning,” the words crack like a cannon in the quiet morning. “Take a seat,” she nods her head at a chair across from her. 

“Have something to do,” Percy's voice grates against his throat, rattling out like rusted metal. 

“You're right,” under the table a boot hits a chair, the legs screeching and clattering as it skids back. “We have a game of poker to play.” 

Percy’s eyes fall to the smooth wooden back of the chair pushed barely into his path, the seat shifted by the kick, facing off over Piper’s right shoulder, an invitation to a table that would still be mostly empty seats and an emptier table, all to play a game that no one can win. Gabe’s slurred and racked voice rattles in his mind, wet with whiskey and cough, bitter from the stale cigars he pulled from with every breath, calling him a fool for playing a hand he couldn’t win, calling him a coward from walking away when the stakes forced on him were too high. 

The table will take from him what little direction, ownership, and self reliance he has, it will rob him of the iron in his spine and vigor in his blood, it will suck every moment from him that it can and at the end of it all he will be a poorer man adrift in the world with only regret. It will do what every poker table has done to any man foolish enough to sit at it. 

“I told you,” his voice still grinds through his throat like sand, “I don’t play poker.”

“And I told you, I don’t take money from brown men.” 

Percy shakes his head, hand shifting, the polished handle of his pistol grazing against his palm, “Then what’s the point of this?”

Piper’s eyes fall to the shift of his hand, lifting back along his arm before they settle on his, the brown no warmer than the morning air. 

“Keeping you alive.” 

The words are flat and short, hitting his nerves like a piano key out of tune, the tension sapped from the wire and run through his bones, throwing the room back into its silence, that note still vibrating in his ear. 

“Not sure what you're talking about.”

“Sure you're not.” She strikes that same flat key, the hammer slamming on the dead wire, jarring the tension in his spine enough that something slips free. 

“So I'm supposed to sit here? Play a pointless game of poker while-” Percy clamps down on that piece that slipped free, pressing it, and the words it let flow free, back into place. 

_ While the bastard rests easy. While he gets to live. While the sheriff does nothing. _

He keeps them tamped down, smothering the flame before it can set off the keg but it still smolders, the ember fizzling and cracking but refusing to die out. 

“Beck is gone, and poker isn’t going to bring him back,” there’s no hammering of the key here, not even the firm press he’d expect, and the hammer never falls on the over tensioned and yielded wire. “But neither is whatever shit you were about to start,” now the hammer falls. 

“And what happens with Dylan? He gets to rest easy until Luke rides in to rescue him?” Piper’s face tightens, draws in as her lips press together and brows furrow. 

“The Sheriff isn’t going to let him get away with this.” 

“She sure as hell let Luke get away.” It’s Percy that kits that note this time, his own word words, his own voice saying that name, a full fist slamming the keys. 

“That was-” Piper shakes her head, “her history with Luke-”

“Isn’t any of your business to be talking about,” the sharp bite of the words is marked by the slam of a glass on wood, turning their heads back towards the bar where red curls are pulled back into a tight braid with the first strands already pulling free. “ _ You _ ,” Rachel points at Piper across the room, “can stay quiet.” 

“ _ History _ ?” The word rings like a hammer strike in his jaw. “Of course. She knows him,” the words roll like gravel in his mouth, coating his tongue and throat with a coarse grit of ash and iron and bitterness. 

For a second the light of the morning pulls back, shifting and twisting, the notes of dust curl into plumes of smoke and the room burns around him, fire living licking up the walls, Beck standing in front of loaded guns while the sheriff watches. He swallows through the lump and bile in his throat, shoves down on the memory, the feeling of Beck's shirt in his fists, the taste of Ash in the air, the smell of copper.  _ History _ , he pushes the word back into his head, repeats it, pulls it back every time the memories try and swallow it. It turns into a buoy, dragging him from the depths of that memory, past the one in his mother's home, and surfaces him back in the saloon, back in front of that poker table.  _ History _ , he reminds himself one more time. 

The chair barks as it skitters across the floor, slamming back into the table Piper pushed it from, wood cracking against wood, legs rocking from the impact. Percy doesn’t stop, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t turn back at the sound or the curse Piper lets out, his eyes are burning through the shuttered doorway, the smell of smoke and taste of bile at the back of his throat, pushing him forward. 

“Where the hell are you going?” Rachel’s voice cuts through the haze and pain. 

“To get answers,” Percy growls, that gravel, that taste, rattling in his throat. 

“What are you standing there for?” Rachel’s voice rings out in her saloon again, clear and bright and commanding, “get after him.” 

There are boot steps behind him, softer than the slamming of his own, but there, quick and sure and after him, but he’s already hitting the shutters, already stepping out into the direct light of day, his eyes narrowing, head dipping down to cut the light with the brim of his hat,  _ Beck’s _ hat. He leans in, hand slipping to his hip, to the cold wood and metal tucked tightly into leather, hanging heavy at his side. 

Dust kicks across the road where his heels catch it and send it shooting forward, puffs glimmering gold in the light now streaming down the road. Another spray of dust slides across the road, boots scraping up beside him. Percy turns, jaw brushing his shoulder as Piper’s braids whip around her, only a few hairs pulled loose to glint black in the light. Her footsteps land in time with his, eyes on his as they stalk down the empty morning road, her weight as heavy as the gun at his side, and just as quiet. 

Their boots slip over the dust and dirt, grating softly with each step, taking them closer to the sheriff’s office, tightening the muscles in his back, pulling his spine into an iron rod. Each step adds another ounce to her presence beside him, another grain of gunpowder packed into the shell, another douse of kerosene poured on the log. 

“You going to try and stop me?” There’s still gravel left in his throat that catches on the words. 

“No point. I’ve seen enough men on a warpath.” If her words had been firm and full of fire, if they had been cold and curt and cut through him like wind off the Hudson he could have bit down on it, could have leaned into the fire and fueled from it. 

The words are empty though, said and meant and not held back on but there’s no edge or fire or cold to them, they are what they are. Percy has to push to keep his steps from faltering for a moment, telling himself to keep his eyes ahead, his feet moving, his face forward. He has a goal, answers to pull from the Sheriff, a guilty man resting easy while he chews through guilt and pain and grief. He has Beck to remember, to get answers for, to avenge if he damn well needs to. 

There is nothing but the empty street except boots crunching into dust and the hammering of blood in his ears. Each step across the town is taken with another hammer blow of adrenaline in his blood, another crash of cold that washes over his back to run down his legs and deep into his boots, another breath taken through tightened lungs and gritted teeth. 

At the foot of she sheriff's office that cold has risen to his neck, ice forms in his stomach, turning into a block that rises and falls on the sea of nausea, adrenaline, and nerves that churns inside him. 

The gun weighs more now, pulling him to the side, threatening to throw him off balance to slip beneath the crashing waves that slam with every thunderous beat in his veins. The hat digs at hit scalp, sitting too stiff and rigid and heavy on his head. He's here though, with Piper's eyes still on his back, with the conversation in the saloon still humming in his blood, with the image of Beck hitting the ground burning in his mind, and Luke's bloated smile in the darkness every time he blinks. 

His hand catches the handle of the door, fingers curling around still cold metal and a layer of grit, that image of Luke still flickering in his mind as he twists, shoves, flinches at the scrape of door against frame. He sucks in a breath, moves his hand to the grip of his pistol and lets it go and then steps into the vipers nest. 

He expects a cold glare and hard eyes, his spine already prickling with the promised chill, but the gaze that meets him is cool but sparing, lasting only long enough to make the line of his shoulders, placement of his hand, and the gun still holstered at his side before it slides away towards the woman a step behind him. The coolness there evaporates in a second, the deputy's shoulders squaring and head lifting. 

“Something I can do for you?” Percy wonders how much of the question is actually for him, given the deputy doesn't bother to look at him when he asks. 

“Where's the Sheriff?” What's left of the gravel is spent by the time he gets to her title. 

“Out, but she'll be back soon enough. I can send for you when she gets back.” 

“No.” The word is sharp and cold and hit too hard. He turns his head, eyes falling across the desks, the rifles in the back, the iron bars and the figure laying behind them. “I'll wait,” he says, words flat, distant even to himself. 

In the corner of his eye he sees Deputy Grace turn, following Percy's gaze, catching the figure and everything between them. 

“I don't think that's a good idea. Go back to the saloon and I'll-”

“I have questions and she's gonna god damned  _ answer _ them.” Percy's eyes rip from the figure and back to Jason, his hand flexing at his side, shifting just an inch towards a fist. 

It's a move the deputy doesn't miss, and Percy doesn't miss Jason's hand slip towards his own gun, shoulders squaring away against Percy. 

“Ms. McLean, find the Sheriff for me please.” The deputy's voice barely constrains the order, that command slipping into the words as easy as a cartridge sliding into a chamber. 

There's a moment of quiet before a boot scuffs behind him, then another, then the sound of boots hitting dirt and taking off, dust and dirt kicking off barely there above the ringing tension in the room. 

“We're all upset about Beck, but the Sheriff is sorting this out.” Jason's voice is as still as the air around them, marked and weighed and picked out. 

“She's letting his killer live, letting Luke get away.” Percy's eyes turn back to the figure laying behind the bars, a white baggage wrapped around his leg while he stirs. 

The deputy takes a step, moving to place himself between Percy and Dylan, or at least to a spot where he can keep his eyes on Percy's hand and just how far he keeps it from his gun. 

“She's doing her duty-”

“She knows Luke, they have _ history _ ,” he spits. 

“The Sheriff may know him-”

Percy takes a step towards the cell, fists bunching at his sides, the pounding of his heart a storm in his ears.

“She watched. He killed Beck and she watched. And now _ he's _ laying there comfy as can be!” 

Jason glances over his shoulder, hand twitching on the handle of his pistol, gaze lingering a moment, then two, his eyes moving back to Percy slowly.

“He's gonna pay for what he did. I promise there will be Justice.”

“ _ Justice _ ? How is this justice?”

Jason flinches at Percy's voice, the sound a crack of thunder in the tight room, the noise matching the crashing in his head. 

“Y'all mind keeping it down? A man is trying to rest,” Dylan's voice drips with so much confidence and pride Percy can feel his boots getting wet. 

Percy takes another step, another round of crashing in his head, this time the world rocks with it, his vision coming to a point, every question he has for the Sheriff washed away. If there's anything outside this room, outside the wooden walls that box him in with that bastard, it dissolves away as Dylan takes his time pushing himself up. His movements are slow, leg stiff as he swings it off the bed to set it gently on the floor, righting himself on the cot and looking out through the bars with a satisfied smile painted on his lips. 

There are words on Percy's lips, bitter and sharp and tasting of blood, of hate, of violence, but they stay there, held in place along with the rest of him by the deputy as he steps between them, hand pressing into Percy's chest.

“You mind keeping your fucking mouth closed?” That taste of blood, of hate, of violence in Percy's words is there in the deputy's barked words. 

“A mouth on you, Deputy. Your Indian girl know that?” Dylan's smile creeps up at the edges.

“Now I'm _ telling _ you to shut your fucking mouth,” the deputy growls. 

Dylan's smile keeps a jagged curl at the edges, broken only for a second by a wince as he pushes himself off the cot to his feet, limping across those few paces to hang his arms out the cell. His face is pressed to the bars now, the corners of his smile lost behind iron, hands hanging limp at the wrist and shoulders slouched. His bandage has a tint of red against the bright white, a marker of the bullet that hit but the shot that missed. 

“Beck's dead and  _ he _ gets to run his mouth off,” Percy huffs. “This seem like justice to you, Deputy?”

“No,” the deputy spins on him, eyes cracking like the storms on the horizon. “It's not. But he's going to face justice, the Sheriff will make sure of that.”

The laugh starts low and choppy, the breathy and broken chuckles filling in until it's a full laugh that takes up too much space in the room. Dylan lifts his head, arms sliding back through the bars, his hands wrapping around the iron, pulling him to his full height. 

“Hate to break it to you boys but I'm not gonna see the Sheriff let alone the gallows. See I'm walking out of this cell. You know why? Because you're gonna let me.” Dylan's words wash over him like vinegar, soaking into his skin and leaving a foul smell behind.

“The fuck I am,” the deputy growls. 

“Oh you are,” Dylan laughs. “Luke is gonna ride back into town and he's gonna…  _ take care _ of the Sheriff, along with anyone else that gets in his way.” Dylan smiles like he's already walking free and easy down the street, like he owns the god damned place, like it's hung the moon. 

Percy's eyes flick over the man, the ease to his shoulders, the set of the smile across his lips, the looseness of his stance, and he looks more like the cat in a birdcage than a rat in a trap. 

“You killed a man. You murdered him,” Percy says numbly, Dylan's conviction ringing too easy to hear.

“The only thing I did was put a boy in his place.” 

That numbness in his bones turns to acid, to molten lead, to Ash. It is torn away in a riptide of red stained heat, sucking him under, pushing out all the air in his lungs, drowning him in it until it is all he can feel and see and taste. 

The deputy's hand registers against his chest, the shout ringing in his ear, but all Percy feels, all he really feels, is the world lunging past him, the scrape of metal against his skin on his knuckles, and the crunch of flesh under his first. The next curse that comes, wet and muffled and heavy with pain, it splatters blood in a thin layer across the floor and the bars as Dylan stumbles back, hand reaching to his face before he shifts his weight to heavily onto his bad leg and falls forward, slamming into the bars.

“You fucking bastard,” Dylan slurs, blood still flowing from his nose. 

“Brought that upon yourself.” The deputy's voice is a step past respectable and into laughter. 

“Fuck you too!” Dylan spits. 

A smile cracks Percy's lips, a fissure that opens in the heat and the red that clouds every other sense, a breath caught between clenched teeth. It may be the blood or the pain or the sight oh Dylan on his ass but there is something that makes the weight feel a little more easy to carry. 

Deputy Grace doesn't say anything as he steps away from Percy, reaching to the desk to pull a ring of keys that clink in his hand. Dylan spits onto the floor, marring it with red specks and spittle, when he wipes his face it streaks blood across his mouth and chin and cheek. His eyes don't turn to Jason who places a key into the lock and twists, they stay on Percy instead, sharp and jagged and wild, shifting like an animal that's been cornered. 

“Should have put you down when I had the chance,  _ boy _ . Better yet someone should have put your mother down before you were born.” 

That crack in the red fills back in, the breath kicked from his lungs, his teeth groan with the tension in his jaw. The door to the cell starts to swing open under the deputy's push, and flies open when Percy shoves his way past the deputy, shoulder slamming into the door to send it crashing back into the wall. He makes it a step before hands grab him, reeling him back in.

“Percy!” Jason’s voice roars in his ear. “Enough!” 

The words are muffled and thinned, shouted through a sea of rage and adrenaline that burns away any thought that isn’t causing more pain, drawing more blood. It takes Jason wrapping an arm around him and pulling him back, shifting his weight until he has to kick to stay upright that he takes a breath, sucks in air until his lungs stretch and burn. The tides of anger ebb, a pause between the pounding of the storm and Percy thinks for the first time since Dylan spoke. Jason’s word rings in his ears still,  _ enough _ .

And then Dylan’s grin twitches up, the corner of his mouth lifting, eyes shining like he’s been dealt the winning hand. That moment of clarity burns away, the fury and anger and rage slam back down, push out anything but the singular thought of killing this man. 

This time when Percy lurches forwards he closes the distance, wraps a hand around Dylan’s neck as the man’s eyes bulge and smile somehow deepens,  _ deepens _ . Percy screams, throat burning. He rips his other hand free of Jason, balling it up until his knuckles are tight and throwing it forward. Dylan doesn’t move, can’t move, and the fist slams into his nose, Dylan sputtering and spraying a mouthful of blood. 

Jason yanks, twists, presses himself between Percy and Dylan, digs his fingers into Percy and pushes him back. The full weight of the deputy pushes into him, shoves him back, puts space between Percy and Dylan. Percy can still see the smile on the bastards face, can still hear his laugh, can hear the words he’s said about Annabeth. 

“Move,” Percy’s strained voice barely makes it to his own ears. “Move,” he roars, clawing at the deputy, fingers digging into the man’s vest, nails tearing. 

Jason doesn’t flinch, doesn’t budge, doesn’t yield. He holds Percy in place, hands dug into Percy like a tick. As wildly as Percy swings, as firmly he digs his boots into the wooden floors to push forward, to get his hand around Dylan’s neck again, Jason won’t move. 

“Percy you’re going to kill him,” Jason’s voice is loud and firm and close. 

“Good,” Percy spits. 

“God damned it, Percy you’re-” 

The words die in the roar of a gun. Jason yields.

The shot fills every inch of the Sheriff’s building, floods every cell and corner, washes over the wood and paper and iron bars and comes rushing back at them. The weight of the deputy sags, falls onto Percy for just a heartbeat before Jason shuffles, gasps, takes a step back and sways. His hands slacken from their iron grip, fingers slipping free of Percy’s shirt one by one. Percy watches as the deputy swallows, eyelids lulling closed before he yanks them open again, blinking quickly. 

Jason falls, body tilting sideways to slam against a desk, the Sheriff’s most likely, arm sprawling out across its surface to grip, to cling, to find something to keep himself up as his legs fail him. He manages to get a single knee under him and it’s all that keeps him from crumpling to the ground. Percy can already see the blood as it soaks into cotton and wool. 

Across the room Dylan is still all grin, but now the weight behind it is a gun with five bullets still in the chamber and the barrel sighted down on Percy. It takes only a look for Percy to recognize that gun, and the ball of lead that rode into town with is there again, pressed to the back of his tongue with nothing else for him to do but swallow it. If he had the time he’d wonder if this is what it feels like to know your name is written on a bullet, to taste it on your tongue before it ever tastes your flesh. 

Dylan’s thumb reaches for the hammer, both hands gripping the pistol with dirty, bloody fingers that wrap around a few pounds of metal that have once again ripped away everything in his life and so deftly derailed his destiny. 

It takes him another heartbeat to pull the hammer back and Percy moves, feet kicking hard against the floor, a boot catching on Jason as he lunges over him, hands outstretched. The hammer pulls back, gun clicking at it’s cocked and primed and ready to take a third life. Percy’s hand reaches the gun before Dylan’s finger meets the trigger, pushing the barrel away and up. The shot goes wide, ripping through wall or roof or somewhere else that doesn’t matter because it’s not flesh and bone. Percy’s fingers curl around barrel and chamber and hammer, burning at the heat that pours out of a twice fired gun. The space between himself and Dylan stinks of smoke and powder, warm iron and copper, sweat and blood. 

Dylan gets his thumb on the hammer again, twisting the gun as he cranks back the mechanism, primes the gun again. The barrel is still skyward, still away from Percy but level with his peripheral as he focuses in on Dylan. Percy slides his hand, catching his thumb inside the trigger guard and tightening against Dylan’s finger. The third shot rips through the room, glass shattering behind him. Dylan lets out a snarl, both thumbs scrambling over the hammer, fighting for purchase. Percy slams his shoulder forward, stumbling them back a step. He pushes, fighting to keep them going backwards, to keep them moving, to keep his weight over the other man. They make it another step before Dylan collides with the jail cell, breath knocked from his lungs and Percy takes that struggled breath to push the gun down between them. The barrel drifts between the floorboards, still spilling smoke out of the muzzle. 

The fight is devolving into some strange deja vu of the first time Percy threw a fist at him, but the pounding in his heart, the heave of his chest, and the burning in his spine is so much more this time. A few punches on a dusty street can’t weigh up against three shots fired in a few breaths. 

This time Dylan swings next through, pulling his head back and snapping it forward to crack against Percy’s nose. The world turns white and red and white again, swimming slightly as Percy blinks away the pain. The opening is enough for the hammer to once again be pulled back and ready, the gun inching in Percy’s direction. Percy steps sideways, turning and pulling on the gun as the chamber twists under his palms, firing once again and finding nothing but the space he once stood. Percy doubles over, pressing his chest to Dylan’s arms, nails digging into the man’s skin, his fingers sliding over the gun. It’s Percy’s thumb that catches the hammer this time, and as he twists he feels the other grip loosen. Nerves fire, muscles moving before Percy has processed the action let alone the thought to cause it. The hammer pulls back, Percy’s fingers sliding into place where Dylan’s were, gun nearly twisted free. A flood of weight falls out from Percy’s stomach, the gun nearly free, nearly in his hands, nearly ready. And a boot catches his knee, kicking out and buckling Percy. Dylan surges up as Percy falls, hands tightening back around the gun, barrel pressed in until it’s over Percy’s shoulder and this time when the gun fires it rips through the space beside him, the heat washing over his face and the crack of the blast a strike to his ear that radiates into his skull. 

He blinks, the world a bell that rings around him. His hands burn, his nostrils burn, his body burns. Percy swallows the deepening smell of burnt gunpowder and hot blood. He can’t hear the hammer this time as it pulls back, can’t hear the click of it falling into place, spring tight and pin read. But he can feel it. It clicks in his bones and echos in his chest. That god damned gun will in fact be the end of him. 

Percy looks up into Dylan’s smile, gun hovering between them, barrel staring him down. 

“I’ll give the Sheriff your regards,” Dylan’s words are a ringing slur as he squeezes down on the trigger. 

The hammer falls, metal striking metal, but there is no roar, no bark, no boom of the gun. That bullet has already been spent and found its mark. The chamber sits empty and bare and burnt, the lead it held weighing in Percy’s gut since New York. 

Dylan blinks at the gun, grin turning to grimace and Percy takes a breath, balling his fist, pushing his weight into his foot and legs and readying to swing. But a hand grabs his shoulder, pulls him back and throws him to the ground and as that space opens Jason steps into it, pistol in his other hand still soaked with his own blood and dripping from his fingers. Dylan doesn’t have time to look up before the barrel is against his chest, pressed squarely over his heart and fired. 

This shot is muffled. A dull and heavy sound that doesn’t echo off the walls or boom in Percy’s ears. It happens and is gone. The bullet loosed free and into its mark, the man it meets still caught in a state of confusion and anger as it takes his life. 

There is no moment of wavering with Dylan, no time spent waiting at the river between life and death, the ferriman already there to collect him. In the heartbeat before Jason pulls the trigger he’s there, and in the heartbeat after he’s gone. The body falls with the gun and they both clatter to the ground. 

Jason stands tall long enough to take a breath, long enough to let the gun settle at his side, long enough to turn his eyes to Percy so he can see they are glazed and unfocused and empty. Jason tumbles, knees going to to slam to the floorboards beneath him, the gun falls free of his hand, head sagging. 

Percy scrambles, catching Jason’s shoulder before he falls completely. His other hand wraps around Jason to support him and finds the warmth and stickiness of blood across Jason’s back. He grips the deputy, heart hammering in his chest, breath hitching. Jason’s eyes drift vacantly across the room until they find Percy, focusing in for a moment of clarity that pulls a worn and empty smile. 

“Keep her-” Jason swallows, head swaying, “keep…” he takes a deep and shuddering breath, “keep ‘er safe,” he manages to choke out, eyes drifting. 

“I’ll- I’ll keep the Sheriff safe,” Percy croaks. 

Jason huffs a thick, wet laugh. 

“Keep them both safe,” he mutters, tilting at the waist and falling into Percy. 

The silence that had settled into the room in the vacancy after the gunshots is broken as Percy yells for the sheriff, for help, for anyone. 

 

* * *

  
  


Somewhere, Atlas sighs at the release in duty, some piece of the sky no longer pressing into his back but settled on another pair of shoulders, settled on  _ her _ shoulders. It presses her down with every step, grinding the balls of her feet into the worn sole of her boot, runs through the muscles in her neck and into her shoulder blades so that it pulls at muscles every time she turns her head. It is the bow and she is the oxen, every step forward encumbered by the city she pulls behind her. That city churns like a hive that's been flipped on end, every set of lips set to whispering about the sheriff and doc sprinting across town, about the gunshots that rang out in her office, about the body dragged away. 

She wades through this, following a direct path across her town and past the pressing eyes that marker her path. They peer, wide and searching and curious, wanting to ask every question and rumor that has spread across this town as quick as a plague but far more infectious. A man is dead, another in the care of the doctor, there is a story there and they will have it or make their own. 

That can be settled well enough though, a quick word to Rachel and it will spread, the seed tossed to them to hungrily flock to and snatch up. The gossip will burn itself out like fires across the planes, the fuel too dry, too easily licked up to last any longer than the cool night air at morning. It is the piece that isn't being whispered about that must be cut off, cauterized to stem the bleeding, the bullet, or lack there of, that has started this infection. 

She rounds the corner to find him in that same spot, hunched over himself, water dripping off his arms to soak into his pants, into the wooden boards he's perched on. He's dripping but from here she can still see the red that's stained his clothes, the spots that will turn brown and cling to cotton the same way this memory, and Beck's memory, will cling to him. 

In those last few feet to him she picks out the strands of hair that peak out between curled fingers, the stubble that's longer now, that covers his face and neck, the wrinkles in his collar, and the hollow gaze that seeps through the ground to somewhere far below. She places one boot on the step, the other left in the road, hand propped on her leg with her knuckles pressed into her thigh and the gun,  _ his _ gun heavy in her fingers. 

“What in the hell were you thinking?” The words are a tumble of blades, sharp and cutting as she says them.

“I- I wanted answers,” he says to his boots, to the drops of water that fall from him.

“And how is Dylan's corpse on giving those answers?” 

“Not from him, from _ you _ .” There's the first crash of waves on the calm waters. “About Luke, about why you let him ride off. Why you let him…” His jaw clenches, works, stiffens.

Something coils in her gut, twists and writhes, shoving bile to rise in her throat. 

“You want to know about Luke?” The name waivers on her tongue, leaving a burning spot where it sat. “Then you tell me about New York.” She earns herself a side thrown glare for that, something quick before he looks away, curling his arm to block her from his sight.

Annabeth traces her thumb over the cooling steel, the edge of the chamber, the divots for the percussion caps, catching against the pad of her finger. She has carried a gun as long as she has carried herself, worn it as easily as a shit, slept with it as her pillow, pressed it to her skin until it's become her, since the days she stood like this over Luke. In all that time she's never walked a step with an unloaded gun, let alone cross a thousand miles.

_ You hold a gun like a lover, but trust it like a snake _ , he tells her, wooden grip sinking into her hand, dirt filled wrinkles forming as she wraps her fingers around it and hefts it with both hands. The memory drenches her in cold, leaving pieces of ice to float in her spine.

She places the gun on a scale in her mind, watches it sway and tip, waits for it to swing too far and teeter back, but the scale doesn't settle, doesn't fall into place, it just swings. So she places that one bullet on the other side, tosses it into the pan and watches it roll around the rim, and that scale tips back. 

“Five bullets.” He jumps, eyes and head snapping from the ground to her, wide and dancing between her own. 

“Huh?” 

“There are four bullets in my office and one in my Deputy. That makes five. Not six.” She waits, let's the words sit on him, watches him straighten. 

“So?” 

That bullet rolls a little further, tips the scales another degree or two in its direction. 

“You kill a man and then ride out here with five bullets? No. No, I don't think so.” She curls her fingers tighter around the gun, hoping it's not made of glass, hoping she isn't going to shatter it in her hand and cut herself. 

“I- I couldn't reload it. Guilt.” 

The scale dips hard.

“Guilt makes you throw it in a river. Bury it in your bag. This,” she lifts it from her leg, holds it over him, “means something.” 

“Doesn't mean anything,” he grumbles. 

Annabeth looks back at the scale, at the way a god damned gun can't seem to measure up against a single bullet fired over a thousand miles away. 

“You killed your stepfather.” She strips everything down, no reasoning or justification, just the action and its victim.

“Yes,” he says quickly, hurriedly, snatching what isn't even a question out of the air before it can be processed, before it can be thought about, before any others can be asked. 

She wipes the gun from the scale, watches it swing wildly, the bullet nearly tipping free, weighing the metal in her other hand. She can wrap her fingers around this, can tuck it in the palm of her hand, can feel the rounded edge dig into skin without the weight pulling at her. At least not the weight of the metal. 

But the weight it pins to you, the weight that hangs off her chest and only grows every time she catches it shine in the cracked mirror over wash him, that weight pulls at everything inside her. 

The badge drops onto the scale, still speckled with blood where she couldn't clean it out with her fingers, rocking for a second as the scale slows, comes to level, stops. 

Annabeth curses, bitter and sharp and quick like a shot of shitty whiskey, Percy shrinking back at the outburst, eyes heavy on her as she stands over him. There are a thousand things to ask, to question, to pry into him about, truths to squeeze from him one by one by one, but she's already weighed that bullet and whatever reason for why, whatever story comes behind it being fired into is stepfather is just an explanation for its weight on the scale. Because she has decided, Percy Jackson is as deep into this as she is, and if she's going to dig herself out, if this is going to end on her terms, she's going to need his help. 

That thought clamps down on her, a trap that's been there, just under the surface, that's she's fully stepped into. It pins her down, caging in every other thought, pulling the horizon to just the few feet around them, between them, and she tears at it, her mind racing to find some other way, desperate to free herself from the iron teeth of it, even if that means chewing her way free but there's nothing left. She accepts this or leaves herself handicapped with the wolves bearing down, hobbled and limping and easy pickings. 

A glower crosses her face, she can feel the tightening of it, catches the narrowing of her eyes, the tightening of her fingers around the badge. She holds that a second, two before she swings her hand out and lets go, the metal glinting in the late morning sun as it falls, his hands coming up to catch it against his chest. 

“Congratulations, you're my new deputy,” she says hurriedly, eyes kept on the badge, on his hands.

“What? You threaten me about New York,” his eyes flick to spots behind her, “and now I'm a sheriff?”

“A  _ deputy _ ,” she corrects, bending at the waist to leer over him. “The way I see it, it's your fault I'm out a deputy, so you'll step up.” She leans back up, free hand moving to her waist. “And Jackson, don't think we won't deal with New York.” 

She turns, boot scraping against the ground as she does, Percy's eyes still wide, still watching, still trying to piece together the badge and his past. 

“Ms McLean headed down to the creek outside town, says she needs to cleanse herself of this. Maybe you should think about doing the same.” She says over her shoulder, catching his head lift and fall after a moment, his eyes never leaving her.

Annabeth means the words she's said, they will deal with New York, she will find out what really happened, what he's hiding and why he ran a thousand miles with a half loaded gun, but that may have to wait until they deal with Luke, with his gang, and why they rode across the country to come back here. 

 


End file.
